Arthur Kirkland's Guide to Being a Big Brother
by Feyna
Summary: After ten years of living as the youngest of four children, Arthur Kirkland is firmly convinced that older brothers are useless at best, a nuisance at worst. The introduction of six-year-old Alfred into his life is the first of many changes that force Arthur to reconsider his position. (Human AU)
1. Alfred, Part 1

**Notes : **This story is a human AU which will probably serve as background for other stories I might write. It's going to be 4–5 chapters long. I wanted to try a bit of a different style, more fragmented than usual, but I think I succeeded only in part, and not in this chapter. I hope it's not too bad. It's also my first time writing something so long from Arthur's POV, I hope I haven't messed up!

 **Disclaimer : **Hetalia belongs to its creator Hidekaz Himaruya, credits for the cover picture go to シロクマ (pixiv id=621971).

* * *

 **Alfred, Part 1**

In retrospect, Alistair would say that it was all Arthur's fault. Arthur would deny, of course, because he wouldn't agree with Alistair even under torture, but when he was alone, without his older brother's grin tormenting him, the boy would recognize that yes, he had certainly played a hand in the events that had followed. And the thought was always accompanied by a spark of pride, because, unlike his older brothers, Arthur could see what truly mattered: he could see the way their mother's eyes sparkled now, the way her smile was more genuine, her features finally lacking the tension that had hardened them for so many years. It hadn't always been like that.

It wasn't like that the day everything was put into motion, a warm day of June when Summer's warm temperatures and bright sun were timidly starting to make themselves seen. Arthur had felt blessed for the presence of the air conditioning that cooled down the rooms and corridors of the university, making him forget the humid heat he had complained about when he was still outside. And it wasn't only that: the university building was incredibly interesting, in the humble opinion of a ten-year-old. It was a maze of ample corridors sided by grand walls adorned with low reliefs and motives that exuded a note of solemnity, almost reminding Arthur of some old buildings from homes, with the high windows opening on a cloudless sky that gave no indication of the location. If Arthur pretended hard enough, he could almost imagine that he was still in England.

The architecture wasn't the only interesting thing, however. Somebody seemed almost to have feared that people could forget they were inside a university instead of a random old building, and had done his best to remind them. The halls and corridors were invaded by boards with colourful posters and displays that highlighted the activities of the university, such a rich display of knowledge and trivia that Arthur's head was almost spinning, he didn't quite know where to look to absorb all that information.

A series of panels about an expedition in Egypt was the cause of the boy's ultimate downfall. What he did was nothing special: he merely stopped to have a closer look at the pictures and found himself completely engrossed in the explanation. Yet such an apparently harmless, insignificant action led to unforeseen consequences of much bigger magnitude.

After reading one of the panels, Arthur turned to show his mother the discovery, his lips curled into an excited smile – only to find an empty space next to him. The boy needed a moment to process the unexpected information, then his eyes quickly roamed over the corridor, widening, his features slowly shifting from excitement to horror as his stomach coiled with dread.

"Mum?" he tried to call fearfully, his voice wavering, but deep down, Arthur already knew that it was useless: his mother's bright red hair was hard to miss, and there weren't many people around the corridor. Two girls were chatting next to a door, a young man was walking at a brisk pace, but there was no trace of red. If Arthur couldn't see his mother, it meant that she wasn't there.

And neither was Alistair, who had left even earlier to check on something – Arthur hadn't even been listening to him. The boy couldn't claim that he _liked_ Alistair, but at that moment, even _he_ would have been welcome.

"Mum?!" Arthur called again, his breathing pitching up.

For a second time, nobody answered him.

Arthur swiftly turned around, his eyes wildly inspecting every corner as his head frantically moved from side to side, but the result didn't change: no red hair. It was at that moment that the boy was invaded by another horrifying realization: _he had no idea of where he was._ He hadn't been paying attention to where they were going, too taken by the displays and pictures, and now he didn't know how to get back to the entrance, or how to get out of the corridor. There was only one thing he knew with certainty: that place was _huge_.

Now, Arthur was a big boy. He was ten years old, which was almost a grown-up, no matter what Alistair or Connor or Dylan said, so, he was aware that he shouldn't panic. Yet, that knowledge wasn't helping. Arthur didn't know what to do. He kept looking around, his eyes as wide as saucers, but his feet were frozen on the spot. Mum mustn't have realized that he had stopped, so she didn't know where he was, either. She would look for him, but would she ever find him? That place was so big…

Arthur almost wanted to run, but that would have probably only resulted in him getting lost even further. What could he do, then? Those corridors, that had looked so bright and inviting a few moments earlier, where suddenly ominously big – the walls were too high, the small windows suffocating, they almost seemed to be curling inwards, closing over him.

Arthur's throat was closed off by a big lump, and his vision was blurry – tears, he realized suddenly. He felt a slight twinge of shame at that, and he swallowed painfully, somehow managing to restrain the hot tears that were pressing against his lids. He still didn't know what to do, however.

He was in a foreign country, with people who spoke a butchered version of his language, who were said to carry guns around and maybe kidnap children and sell them for their organs – that was what Oliver had said when he had learnt that Arthur was moving, at least. Arthur hadn't believed him, his mother had told him numerous times that he shouldn't take heed to anything that came out of his cousin's mouth, but at that moment… what if Oliver was right? The fear was closing off Arthur's throat, a barrier between his brain and any rational thought, his heart was racing.

He wanted Mum. Or Alistair. He would have _hugged_ Alistair if he had seen him, even if he didn't like him at all. Scratch that, he was never going to say another word against Alistair…

"Hey, kid, is everything all right?"

Arthur jumped, screeching.

The man who was crouched next to him smiled, holding up his hands in a placating manner.

"Whoa there, sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. I just noticed that you seemed to be alone… where are your parents? Did you get lost?"

Arthur didn't answer, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the stranger.

The man was _American_ , he had immediately realized it by his accent. He was tall and strong, casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a white shirt that highlighted his tanned complexion. His chiselled features were framed by straight chestnut brown hair and his eyes were of the most intense cornflower blue that Arthur had ever seen, so bright that it almost looked fake. His white-toothed smile was far too perfect as well, there was no way somebody would smile like that without having a hidden agenda. Suddenly, all of Oliver's tales about disappeared children sounded far too real.

"I shouldn't talk to strangers," Arthur declared drily, inching away from the man.

Much to his surprise, the stranger laughed. It wasn't the sound Arthur would have expected from the mouth of a child-snatcher, but a hearty, honest laugh.

"Fair enough," the man retorted, "Nice to see that there are some judicious young men around. Well, I'm George Jones. It's a real pleasure to meet you. And I won't do anything, I promise – just take you to the information point so we can make an announcement and call your parents to get you, how does this sound?"

George Jones offered Arthur his hand, but the boy made no move to take it.

"How do I know that I can trust you?" he asked, forcing himself to stay completely still.

George Jones simply smiled.

"Turn around and look."

It was probably a stupid thing to do – maybe the man would snatch him as soon as he got distracted – but on the other hand, the stranger's seemingly open face had piqued Arthur's curiosity. He turned around – and was met by George Jones's startling blue eyes and tanned face, smiling wildly from a picture in the panel.

 _'Professor George A. Jones,'_ the caption said, _'Head of the Archaeology Department'_

A soft _'Oh'_ seeped through Arthur's lips as he turned again to the man, his eyes wide.

"See?" said Professor Jones, "I'm a faculty member, not just some stranger. I'll just take you to the information point, I promise, I'm not trying to kidnap you."

Arthur was aware that Jones's words weren't a reliable proof of his intentions – being a university professor didn't mean that he couldn't also be a child-snatcher – but after all, did he have any alternative? And at least, Jones was a renowned person inside the university, somebody would probably be able to identify and remember him if Arthur turned out missing.

"Okay," he muttered, "I'm Arthur Kirkland."

George Jones smiled even more widely as he got up, dusting off his jeans.

"Great, Arthur!" he said, gently placing a hand on the boy's shoulder to lead him, "Like the king, right?"

Arthur nodded as he started to follow the man's steps.

"Mum likes legends."

George Jones hummed.

"Ah, yes… You come from England, don't you? I don't think I've heard such a perfect British accent in a long time… Do you have an older brother or sister who wants to study here?"

Arthur shrugged.

"Not really. Mum got a new job, so we are just moved here… Alistair is studying in Edinburgh and Connor in Belfast, and Dylan will start university in September… Mum hopes that he'll move with us, so she came to have a look of the university, but it's useless. Everybody knows it, she just keeps deluding herself. Alistair is going to stay in Edinburgh, Connor is going to stay in Belfast and Dylan is going to an university in England or in Wales. It's just going to be Mum and me."

Arthur suddenly realized that his throat was uncomfortably tight. He didn't want to cry – he wasn't even sad about it, actually. He didn't mind being without his older brothers, they were only a nuisance, always mocking him for everything and trying to act like they were superior to him. But his mother clearly thought differently, and Arthur's chest clenched every time he saw the lines on her face getting deeper, her eyes, once as bright as his, duller. Arthur wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, but every time he tried, the words seemed blocked in his throat. And it wasn't only that. Everybody kept saying that a change of air would do his mother good, that she needed it, but… in spite of everything, England was their _home_. Deep down, Arthur knew that he wasn't ready to leave it, just like his brothers weren't.

Jones gently tightened the hold on his shoulder – barely, but enough for Arthur to understand that it was meant to be a comforting gesture.

"I see…" the man's voice was soft. "You sound like a very bright boy, Arthur."

Everybody always told him that, but somehow, Jones sounded earnest in a different way other people did. Arthur decided that he liked him.

It wasn't long before Arthur and George Jones arrived at the office. It wasn't far from the place Arthur had gotten lost in – maybe, he would have even felt embarrassed, if he hadn't been so relieved.

"Arthur Kirkland is waiting for his mother Aila Kirkland at the information point at floor one," a bored-looking secretary announced at the interphone a few moments later, under the boy's request.

The smooth, professional voice alleviated the weight at the pit of Arthur's stomach. Mum would know where he was, now. It was going to be all right.

Much to Arthur's surprise, George Jones didn't leave. Curiously, he asked the secretary to prepare a cup of tea before bringing his attention back to Arthur.

"Aila, uh?" he mused, "That's a Celtic name."

The man spent the following minutes discussing with Arthur about Celtic mythology and naming, he seemed to be weirdly knowledgeable about it. But of course, he was an archaeology professor, that was probably normal. Arthur answered with enthusiasm. He had just started to relax while Jones was telling him how much he would have liked seeing Stonehenge, when a scream tore through the air.

"Arthur!"

The boy's heart missed a beat. He jumped up, ready to run to hug his mother, but as soon as he turned, he found himself frozen on the spot.

His mother looked horrible. She was as pale as ghost, her eyes bright and bloodshot, and there was something wildly out of control in her brisk steps. Without stopping for a moment, the woman closed the space between them and convulsively clutched Arthur to her chest. The boy could feel her shaking – and suddenly, to his horror, she burst into tears.

"Oh, Arthur, thank goodness you're all right, I turned around and you weren't there anymore, nobody remembered seeing you, I had no idea of where you were, what if somebody had taken you…"

Arthur was aware that he probably should have said something, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His body felt frozen, his brain unable to connect with his tongue. He had never seen his mother like that. She wasn't _supposed_ to be like that, she was strong, not… not that snivelling, bawling mess.

"And then a lady said that she had seen you leave with a man and oh God Arthur you have no idea of just how terribly worried I was, what if…"

It was at that moment that George Jones cleared his throat, announcing his presence.

"Uhm, excuse me, Mrs Kirkland…"

Aila straightened abruptly without releasing her hold on Arthur.

"I am the man Arthur was with," Jones said, "I noticed that he looked lost and I brought him here to give the announcement. I understand that this must have been quite a scare, but it's all right now."

"Oh…" Aila murmured weakly before regaining some control of herself and wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "Oh, thank you so much, sir… I'm sorry for causing such a scene, I just…"

She finally loosened her death grip on Arthur, but she didn't seem to be able to stop crying.

George Jones offered her a sympathetic smile.

"Don't worry about this. I understand perfectly, I have a young son as well and God only knows how much he makes me worry… I know how terrifying this must have been." The man laid a gentle hand on Aila's arm. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Aila nodded weakly, still sniffling. She let herself be led away from Arthur and collapsed on a chair next to a small table, where a cup of tea had just been placed by the secretary.

Arthur wanted to join his mother, but his feet were glued on the spot. He didn't understand, he had only stopped to look at a display, it shouldn't have led to such consequences… it shouldn't have, really. And in spite of that, his mother was clearly hurting. Arthur's stomach started churning at the realization.

"Arthur! Mum!"

The boy gasped, whirling around. Alistair was coming towards him in long strides, almost running. His light blue eyes were wide, the paleness of his face even more evident in contrast with his crimson hair. He started slowing down his pace only when he caught sight of both his family members visibly unharmed.

"It's all right, Ali," Aila called weakly from her spot, her trembling hands cradling the cup of tea like a new-born pup. "Mr Jones here found Arthur, he's fine. It's all right."

She didn't make any move to get up from the chair, she looked too drained to do so. After a brief smile at Alistair, George Jones turned back to the woman. Arthur realized that he was talking, but his voice was too soft for the boy to make out any word. His mother was nodding, however, and the trembling of her hands was starting to quell down.

Alistair's hand suddenly descended on Arthur's shoulder, giving it a rough squeeze.

"Let's give Mum some space," he murmured as he started leading Arthur away.

Alistair's eyes were dark on his stony features – not a good sign. Arthur still followed him, too shaken to protest. He couldn't erase from his mind his mother's teary eyes, her anguished expression, and especially, the horrifying, gut-wrenching knowledge that it was his fault. There was no strength left in him to oppose his older brother.

Only when they were outside of the office Alistair loosened his hold, positioning himself in front of his younger brother.

"I want to know _what you were thinking,_ " he hissed.

His hands were trembling slightly, his eyes bright with rage. Arthur instinctively took a step back, but his older brother followed him.

"How can you be so fucking selfish?! Mum has so many things on her plate that you can't even _start_ to imagine it! And instead of helping, what do you do?! You decide to run off on your own, without caring about how much it's going to hurt Mum!"

Arthur wanted to defend himself. He really did, what Alistair was trying to describe was nowhere close to the truth… his tongue seemed frozen, however, his throat blocked off by a big lump. And Alistair kept scolding him, his voice rising in volume until he was almost yelling.

"I can't believe you! You know what's going on, but you don't pay the slightest attention to anything, you just keep being this self-conceited brat—"

Arthur hadn't meant to behave in the way Alistair was describing. He wasn't selfish, he loved Mum above anything else, and would have done anything to ease her concerns. He had only stopped to look at a display, he hadn't realized that his mother had moved away…

In spite of that, the trembling mess that was now his mother was a direct consequence of that brief moment of carelessness.

Arthur couldn't take it anymore. All the emotions that had swelled inside his throat burst out in fat tears streaming down his face. _'I didn't want this!'_ he wanted to yell, but Alistair didn't leave him any space to talk, he didn't even seem to realize that Arthur had started crying – he only kept yelling, his clenched fists trembling.

"—And if you have any idea of just how much we were worrying, you should have seen Mum she was completely frantic— Ouch!"

"Leave him alone, you big bully!"

 _What?_

When Arthur managed to blink away the tears, his blurry vision returned to focus on a surreal scene. Alistair was still in front of him, but expression had shifted from anger to confusion as he looked wide-eyed at the small child who was at his feet, valiantly kicking his shins.

Alistair raised his hands, taking a couple of steps back as he tried to subtract himself from the child's fury.

"Now, lad…" he started saying, trying to dodge the small feet, but the child interrupted him.

"I don't want to hear your excuses, you meanie!"

Alistair's blue eyes were wide in confusion. After a moment of hesitation, he gingerly bent down to try and placate the child, who merely snarled at him and took a couple of steps back before charging again.

Arthur had even forgotten to cry, he could only watch in fascination the odd scene that was unfolding in front of his eyes – Alistair, being attacked by a child who couldn't be any older than seven. Certainly, not something Arthur had ever expected he would see, and his brain was failing to react. He was having troubles merely processing the situation, he still couldn't believe that it was _real_.

George Jones's shocked voice finally jerked Arthur back to reality.

"Alfred! What are you doing?!"

The man swooped in and swept up the child, tearing him away from Alistair.

"I'm sorry," he started saying immediately, "I don't really know what's gotten into him… he was supposed to stay in my office!"

In the man's arms, Alfred scowled, folding his arms across his chest.

Recalling Jones's words to his mother, Arthur wondered if the child was his son. Alfred's features were softer and his hair dark blond, but he _did_ share some resemblance with Mr Jones: they had the same straight nose, tanned skin and, more importantly, those incredible cornflower blue eyes. There was no denying that they were related.

"You were taking forever, Dad!" Alfred whined, proving Arthur's theory. "So I came looking for you! And luckily I did, because this man was being a big bully! Look, he made him cry!"

Arthur blushed slightly as George Jones's eyes darted to his face, while Alistair's expression was darker than ever. Jones faltered. It was clear that he didn't know how to deal with the situation, but somebody else did.

"Alistair!"

At the shrill shout, everybody turned towards the small form that was advancing towards them with brisk steps.

Aila seemed to have mostly recovered. While her face was still pale and her eyes puffy, she was walking with her shoulders squared, and only determination showed through her features.

Alistair paled under her scorching gaze. Arthur's tears were still clearly visible on his cheeks, and Alfred was glaring at the young man. There was no mistaking what had happened, especially not to Aila's expert eyes.

"I think we need to have a talk, Alistair," declared the woman, folding her arms across her chest.

In spite of everything, Arthur found himself cheering internally, the knot in his stomach loosening: _somebody_ was going to get a good thrashing. Next to him, George Jones swallowed, visibly uneasy.

"Well, why don't you come to my office with Alfred, Arthur?" the man asked, somehow summoning a wide smile. "You were looking at the panels from the Egypt expedition, I have some interesting articles about it that have yet to be published…"

Arthur wouldn't have minded assisting to Alistair's demise, but on the other hand, the articles sounded interesting, and they had the added bonus of showing Alistair how superior Arthur was to the entire situation.

"Okay, thank you," he decided, taking the offered hand.

"You can ask the secretary where my office is," Mr Jones said, at which Aila answered with a small nod.

"Thank you," she replied without turning, her eyes boring holes in Alistair's face.

"Mum, I…" Arthur heard him saying.

"No, don't start apologizing now!" Aila cut him off, "What I want to know is _how_ it could even cross your mind to talk to your brother that way?! You're _not_ his parent Alistair, I've told you one million of times! Nothing gives you the right…"

The woman's voice faded in the distance. The disappointment blossomed in a small frown on Arthur's face – the discussion was finally getting to an interesting point – until he felt George Jones's hand slightly relax the hold on his one, making him understand that the man had offered to take him away to save him for a potentially harmful situation. It wouldn't have been, but Arthur realized with surprise that he wasn't any less touched.

He turned to offer the man a small smile, only for his eyes to meet Alfred's bright blue ones. The child was still perched on his father's arm, looking at him with curiosity.

"Your Mama is quite scary," he commented, "Is she always like that?"

A slight crease disturbed the smooth skin of George Jones's forehead.

"Alfred…" he started rebuking, but the remark had made Arthur realize how the man had reached his conclusion.

"No, only if somebody does something wrong," he cut in, "She's actually very sweet when she's not angry. But I don't mind, really, she wasn't angry at me, just at Alistair. So it's fine."

Alfred nodded, clearly satisfied with the answer, leaving Arthur wondering whether such a small child could truly understand what he had just said.

"You talk funny," Alfred declared then, twisting in his father's arms so he could look more closely at Arthur.

George Jones barely managed to restrain a snort behind a dry cough.

Arthur found himself frowning.

 _'You're the one to talk!',_ would have been the immediate reply, because _honestly_ , and yet… after a glance at Alfred's big, earnest eyes, the words died in Arthur's throat. There was no malice in the child's expression, only genuine curiosity.

Moreover, Alfred had to be truly young, Arthur had to remind himself, maybe not even old enough to go to school, blaming his ignorance on him wouldn't be fair. That was without even considering how rude it would be, when his father had been nothing but kind to Arthur.

"That's because I come from England," the boy answered in the end, his words slightly clipped.

Alfred cocked his head.

"Oh wow, it sounds really far away… is it farther than Canada?"

Once again, Arthur had to refrain himself from rolling his eyed. _'He's just a child,'_ he reminded himself before talking.

"Much farther. There's an entire ocean in between."

Alfred's eyes widened in wonder.

"Wow… This is so so far away… like Egypt! I went to Egypt once! Didn't we, Dad?"

Jones chucked at his son's enthusiasm. The child didn't wait for an answer before resuming his excited chatter.

"And it was soo beautiful! The pyramids are so big… I wanted to climb one but Dad didn't let me. But he let me have a ride on a camel! They smell weird, but it was so much fun! And then…"

Alfred kept blabbering about the trip to Egypt the entire way to his father's office, his eyes wide and bright with excitement. Arthur slowly found himself relaxing, the child's enthusiasm was contagious, taking his mind away from the memories of the last moments.

George Jones's office turned out to be as interesting as Arthur would have expected. It was a big rectangular room, with a huge window that opened on the garden, and it might have looked airy, hadn't it been for the books that almost swallowed it. They were piled all over a big wooden desk, stacked in sturdy shelves, there was a pile on a coffee table and one big volume with a blue cover had even been left on one of the two cushioned armchairs next to it. The parts of the wall that weren't occupied by books were covered with old-looking maps and some pictures.

Alfred's voice seemed to fade into the background as Arthur looked around, his eyes widening at the impressive display of _knowledge_. He itched to put his hands on the books, he wanted to spend the rest of his days in that office, he decided suddenly. He even forgot about the articles until he saw Jones put down Alfred to reach some papers on a shelf.

"What are you looking for, Dad?" the child asked immediately, jumping to try and see the papers his father was sorting through.

"Some articles for Arthur," the man answered, "I told him before, weren't you paying attention? You know…"

A gentle knock at the door claimed everybody's attention.

"Yes?" George Jones answered immediately, his voice deeper than it had been when he had been taking to Arthur.

The door opened to reveal a girl with a frizzy hair and the hugest pair of glasses Arthur had ever seen. The boy judged her to be around the same age as his brothers, but instead of exuding their confidence, she was nervously chewing on her lower lip and the binder she held tightly in front of her chest looked almost like a shield.

"I hope I'm not bothering you, professor, I hope I could talk to you about my last paper…"

George Jones straightened up as he walked towards the door.

"Yes, of course. You send me an e-mail yesterday. Barbara, right?"

He was still talking in a deeper voice. That was Professor Jones's voice, Arthur realized suddenly, the same one he had used with the secretary. His countenance was slightly different too, he was standing straighter, and when at the girl's small nod he moved towards her, his steps looked more deliberate. Arthur was just starting to realize how much the man had been trying to make him at ease, which brought a pleasant sense of surprise.

"I'm sorry, boys," Jones said just before stepping out of the room, looking back at Arthur and Alfred. "I'll be back in a minute, you two can stay here… Arthur, if you see any book that looks interesting you can take it."

Even if they weren't the articles George had promised, Arthur was satisfied with the arrangement. His eyes immediately darted to a packed library, but he didn't have the time to choose a book.

"Hey, who was that man who was yelling at you before?" Alfred asked unexpectedly, "Do you know him?"

The child had sat down on one of the two armchairs and he was swinging his legs as he looked at Arthur, his head slightly tilted to a side.

Arthur sighed, carefully moving the book to a side before settling himself on the second armchair.

"Just my older brother," he answered, frowning at the thought. "He's…"

The boy hesitated, stopping himself just in time. _'A pain in the ass,'_ would have been his next choice of words, but Alfred was a _child_. Arthur couldn't talk that way in front of him.

"A real bother," he said in the end, "He's always very mean and grumpy. But Mum is going to give him a big scolding."

Alfred's eyes widened.

"But this is horrible! That's not how big brothers should behave, he's so mean!"

Arthur shrugged. He couldn't deny that Alfred's outrage brought an unexpected twinge of satisfaction, but it was far too clear that the child didn't have the slightest idea of what he was talking about.

"That's just how big brothers are. Let me tell you, I've got three of them, and Alistair is the worst, but they are all _horrid_."

Much to Arthur's surprise, Alfred pouted and folded his arms across his chest.

"Nu—uh. Big brothers aren't supposed to do that. They're supposed to be awesome and take care of their little siblings!"

Arthur didn't know where Alfred had gotten that skewed view from. The TV, maybe, Arthur had seen siblings' relationships generally presented in a positive light there, but it couldn't be further from the truth. And yet… as he opened his mouth to answer, Arthur was once again forced to confront himself with the fact that Alfred was just a small child. Had he any right to crush his naïve beliefs? Besides, Alfred had been so ready to take his side… Arthur really couldn't find it in himself to cause the child some distress.

"Well, maybe mine are a peculiar case," he conceded, but Alfred didn't seem deterred.

"And doesn't your Mom scold them, then? And what about your Dad?"

"Mum does, but sometimes she tells me I'm exaggerating. And Dad…" once again, Arthur found himself hesitating. How much was he allowed to tell such a young child without frightening him?

"He's not around anymore," he decided to settle for in the end, "And this is why my big brothers are so insufferable, too. They want to act like they're my Dad, but they aren't."

That was what Mum always said when she tried to explain him his brother's actions, at least, but Arthur wasn't completely convinced. He was sure that there was a lot more to being a father than behaving like grumpy, whiny spoilsport.

"Oh." Alfred nodded solemnly, his eyes wide. "I see."

He managed to keep his composure for about half a second before fidgeting, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Is he gone like Mama or gone like Jefferson?"

Confusion creased Arthur's forehead.

"Come again?"

"Oh, yeah." Alfred waved his hand in a careless gesture. "Jefferson the hamster. He was really old and sick and now he's in Heaven with God."

Well, so Alfred knew about death. Of course, Arthur had known as well at Alfred's age, but he had been in a different situation.

"While Mama left me and Dad and now she lives with Mattie in Canada."

Arthur's blood ran cold. He knew about divorces, and he knew how unpleasant they were. He could see it written in the too tight features of Alfred's face. He found himself deeply disliking that expression, the child was much better smiling like he had been before.

"My dad is in Heaven. He wasn't old, but he was really sick," Arthur answered evenly.

"This is really sad," Alfred mused, looking at him with impossibly expressive eyes. "I can still see Mama, but you cannot see your Dad… You must be very sad. I was sad when Jefferson died…"

An unexpected spark of warmth blossomed in Arthur's chest. Alfred was just a child, but his concern seemed genuine, and his words were clearly a clumsy offer of comfort.

"It's all right," he answered with a small smile, "I cannot really remember Dad, I was still very little when he died." Henry Kirkland was hardly more than a flash in Arthur's memories, a frail hand ruffling his hair, a breathless laughter, a thin body enveloped by white sheets. "So I cannot really miss him."

That wasn't quite correct, however: while he couldn't miss his father, Arthur was acutely aware of the painful void that his absence had left. He could see it in his mother's dull eyes, in the way her face was constantly wrinkled and tense, so different from the smiling girl Arthur could see in some old pictures. He could see the void in the way Alistair clumsily tried and failed to take charge, in the fact that, when his mother couldn't pick him up from school, Arthur would see one of his brothers, not his father like other children did.

But Arthur couldn't possibly say any of that to the bright-eyed Alfred, who had straightened his back to look more adult and was nodding solemnly. Once again, the child was back to a more exuberant countenance in a matter of seconds, his eyes lighting up as a satisfied smile stretched his lips.

"Hey, you know what? My Dad is alone and your Mom is alone. They should marry, so they won't be alone anymore and your brothers won't have any excuse to bother you!"

Arthur's badly concealed snort quickly turned into a full-blown laughter. Alfred's suggestion was simply preposterous, it wasn't how romance worked, but Arthur couldn't manage to stop laughing long enough to tell him, he could hardly breathe. Fortunately, Alfred didn't seem to take offence at that, or maybe he mistook Arthur's amused reaction as an assent, seeing how he never stopped smiling proudly. Arthur found out that he didn't mind: after all, Alfred was just a child, and his genuine enthusiasm had had the side effect of making the boy almost forget about his previous concerns. While he stayed in the office with Alfred, his mother's tears and Alistair yells seemed far away, easy to ignore. The fact that Alfred seemed to dislike Alistair as much as Arthur did was an added bonus, too.

After that, Arthur kept chatting with Alfred, barely realizing the passing of time. Even the books were forgotten in front of the child's enthusiasm – there were clearly some misconceptions in the way he retold his trip to Egypt, but it was entertaining to see how Alfred's eyes sparkled, unspoiled by maturity. By the time George Jones came back with Aila in tow, Arthur had completely forgotten about Alfred's plans, and when he waved him goodbye, he wasn't expecting to see him again – and he wasn't even truly sorry about it. For how pleasant that time had been, Alfred was still a near-stranger and a child far too young to be considered Arthur's friend.

In spite of that, Arthur found himself thinking about the child when Alistair started nagging him again (this time, on the fact that he should try to go and talk to some children who were playing near their house). He couldn't stop recalling the way Alfred had kicked Alistair, and a smile tugged at his lips at the memory. Alfred had been a sweet child. Arthur probably wasn't going to meet him again, but he hoped that everything would go well for him – and at least, he had a caring father instead of an annoying older brother. He certainly deserved that.

 **(word count: 6,118)**

* * *

 **Notes : **

Arthur's mother is a bit inspired by how I would imagine the personification of Albion (I'm not a big fan of Hetalia OCs, but in these cases I will use them). She's supposed to be Scottish, while Arthur's father is English. Aila is a Scottish Gaelic name that means 'from a strong/resilient place'. She got married at 22, had her first child at 23 and she's now 45 years old.

Alistair, Connor and Dylan are respectively Scotland, North Ireland and Wales, and they're 22, 20 and 18 years old.

Oliver is 2P England, and his mother (a single mother) Lillian is 2P Nyo England. She's Arthur's father's much younger sister, and certainly not a positive person. They won't make any other appearance, however, I just thought that Oliver would be one to tease people like that, and they will be referenced some other times.

George Jones is an OC, but I bet you can guess where I got his name from. He's 42 years old.

Jefferson the hamster was actually named after Thomas Jefferson. I'm 100% sure that Alfred would do something like this.

I would also like to add that English isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistake.

And that's all for now. I hope you guys liked this introduction! Please leave a review if you're interested, it certainly motivates me to work faster!


	2. Alfred, Part 2

**Notes : **Thank you so, so much for the feedback, guys. I don't know if you can realize how much this means to me.

This chapter is much more fragmented than the other one, the writing less detailed in many points – I just wanted to try something different. I hope it's all right!

Warnings: English isn't my first language. Teeth-rotting fluff in this chapter.

* * *

 **Alfred, Part 2**

Saying that Arthur's transition to America went completely smoothly would have been wrong. _Very_ wrong. Everything was too big and too loud, disconcerting, sometimes he couldn't understand the words behind that heavy accent, people were brash to the point of rudeness, the other children too rowdy for Arthur's liking… many times, the boy found himself with anger scratching at his insides, the wish to spew poisonous words out of his mouth. Maybe he even let his tongue run loose, a couple of times, but he was perfectly justified: he didn't want to stay there. He wanted to go back to England – to go back _home_ , where everything still made sense. He wanted his old bedroom, the rainy days and old cobblestone streets. Arthur would have wanted to say that he saw no point in moving to America, that nothing was better and they should go home – but that wouldn't have been true.

His mother was smiling again.

It had been a subtle change at first – the creases that had constantly adorned her face smoothening down, a small smile curling at the corners of her lips more and more often, but, not even a month in, the change was undeniable: his mother's eyes were sparkling, her laughter easier than Arthur had ever heard it, even her steps seemed somehow lighter, as if somebody had taken a weight off her shoulders.

And if his mother was better… well, Arthur could deal with it, too. It didn't come without any drawback or tantrum, but slowly, Arthur started adjusting to his new living situation.

One day, trucks arrived at the empty house next to their one, unloading furniture and boxes under the direction of a middle-aged, energic man with tanned skin, curly brown hair and an odd musical accent. Arthur, who had been reading in the garden, kept looking at the scene until his eyes were caught by a pair of hazel ones, belonging to a skinny boy with tanned skin and sleek dark brown hair that had been staring at Arthur, half-hidden by the hedge. Caught red-handed, the boy started swearing in the most scurrile mixture of English and another language that Arthur had ever heard. Undeterred, the boy answered with the finest insults he had learned from Alistair, and that was how Arthur Kirkland and Lovino Vargas ended up cleaning the attic together as a punishment, while Aila and Massimo Vargas, the man from earlier who had turned out to be Lovino's impossibly young grandfather, chatted amiably in front of a cup of 'real Italian coffee' along with Felicia, Lovino's younger sister.

During the following days, Lovino and Arthur bonder over a shared passion for fantasy and adventure books, a general dislike towards Americans (Lovino was almost as much of an outsider as Arthur, having moved from Italy only the previous year) and a deep envy for Felicia's artistic skills. (Now, Arthur had never been a good artist, and he was aware of that. But that was… simply ridiculous. That child was seven, for God's sake… and in spite of that, she could draw better than most adults Arthur had ever seen). Their friendship was cemented by the fact that Arthur loved spending time at the Vargas's place, it was filled to the brink with books and paintings – Massimo Vargas, as Arthur found out later, was a Latin university professor, as well as a talented painter.

Spending so much time with Lovino, Arthur also came to the realization that, for how much the boy complained about his 'dumb sister', he seemed to be actually quite fond of her and often looked after her, even if complaining the entire time. It was completely different from the way Arthur was treated by his brothers, but that was probably normal: Felicia was a girl, after all.

Sometimes, looking at them, Arthur found himself wondering about Alfred, that bright-eyed child who had been so ready to defend him from an unknown man and seemed to believe firmly in brotherly bonds, but it wasn't more than a fleeting thought. Until the day his mother announced him that he was going to stay at the Vargas's for dinner because she was going out.

That was a first. Arthur raised his head from the book he was reading, looking more closely at Aila. There was something... Odd about her, but he couldn't place his fingers on it. Arthur realized what was amiss only when his mother knelt down to give him a hug, and his nostrils were hit by a nauseatingly sweet scent.

"Ew... Mum, did you put on _perfume_?"

And it wasn't only that, Arthur realized a moment later that his mother's lips were darker than usual, and she was wearing shiny jewels and a nice blue dress that hugged her slim frame.

Aila chuckled.

"I'm going out for dinner, love. I should be nice for once, shouldn't I?"

Well, that did make sense... somehow. Arthur still had the impression that his mother was a bit... Overdoing it, he was quite sure that he had never seen her dressed that way before, but after all, he knew nearly nothing of elegant dresses and make-up and all that girlish stuff.

"Oh, okay. Who are you going with?"

His mother hesitated a fraction of a second, but when she answered her voice was so smooth that Arthur thought he had just imagined it.

"George Jones. You remember him, don't you?"

Arthur nodded, satisfied with the answer. He didn't think anything of it, he was just glad that his mother had found a friend, and his opinion didn't change at Mr Vargas exaggerated sigh of "Alas, your mother has rejected my proposal and found a more promising party, Arthur. What am I going to do with this?", he merely giggled along with Felicia as Lovino scoffed, because Mr Vargas always pretended to flirt with Aila but he didn't mean anything by it.

His mother, however, kept meeting with George Jones.

No more than a week after the dinner, she told Arthur that they had both been invited to George's house. Arthur found himself quite excited at the news – the house of an archaeologist must be impressive, he couldn't even imagine how many strange artefacts, maps and book he would see around, just like in the office.

From the outside, the house turned out to be nothing special, just a normal suburban house surrounded by a big garden. Yet, there was something a bit peculiar about that place, the garden looked more unkempt than its neighbours, and Arthur was sure that he could see a wooden tree house peeking out from a tree around the corner.

Mr Jones opened the door and greeted Arthur and Aila with a warm smile, but the boy barely registered his words, his eyes widening as they took in the treasure cave that stood behind the man's shoulders. The hall was big and airy, and every corner was decorated with foreign objects – there were maps and pictures on the walls, wooden statues and decorated vases on shelves and pedestals… Arthur's head was almost spinning, he didn't quite know where to turn, there were too many things taking his attention.

He didn't have the time to focus on anything. Before he could even think about greeting Mr Jones, a shrill exclamation of joy echoed through the hall, immediately followed by a small form that skidded to halt just in front of Arthur. Alfred was grinning from ear to ear, the excitement in his blue eyes so genuine that Arthur didn't know how to react – but the feeling in his chest certainly wasn't something unpleasant.

"Hello, Arthur! I'm glad you came!"

Alfred didn't leave him any time to reply, or even greet Mr Jones properly.

"Come on, let's go play!" he cried out, snatching Arthur's hand to drag him inside the house.

Before the boy had even fully understood what was happening, Alfred had already dragged him into a game where the two of them were cowboys looking for the remains of an ancient civilization. Which, according to Alfred, consisted in running through the corridors, waving a wooden gun to fight off imaginary enemies and zombies. It was exhausting, Arthur didn't know how such a young child could have so much stamina, he soon found himself gasping for air as he tried to keep up with Alfred, jumping up and down the stairs.

He was almost ready to give up and beg for mercy when he found out that there was actually a very simple solution: he could easily take the lead of the plot, as long as he let Alfred be 'the Hero', as the child loudly proclaimed himself. And so he did. Letting go of any inhibition, Arthur started threading a more and more complicated plot, he fixed the holes in Alfred's childish game as the child blindly followed him in the story, the spark in eyes never fading as he faced off imaginary curses and tasks, saving Arthur from fictional enemies who had imprisoned him (at the top of the stairs, where he could calmly sit and catch his breath while Alfred jumped up and down, his gun discarded for a sword).

Completely engrossed in the game, Arthur forgot about everything else around him until George Jones calling the children startled both of them back to reality. Arthur hadn't realized how much time had passed.

The dinner turned out to be pleasant as well, the atmosphere was relaxed and Mr Jones was a good entertainer, having travelled so much he was full of interesting stories to tell. When Arthur and his mother finally took their leave, the child could barely believe that half a day had passed, it hadn't felt more than a few hours.

"You were really good with Alfred," Aila murmured as they got into the car, a small smile curling the corners of her lips.

Arthur shrugged.

"It's okay. I didn't mind, it was fun, actually."

As the words seeped through his lips, Arthur realized with a pang of surprise that they were completely true. Alfred was younger than him, so it wasn't the same as playing with somebody his age, yet the child's enthusiasm was contagious. It had been a while since Arthur had been so engrossed in the game that he had forgotten about everything else, and the way Alfred had followed his story was almost flattering.

"I like Alfred. And Mr Jones, too."

His mother gave a small, odd exhale at that, as if she had been holding her breath.

"Well, this is good."

After that afternoon, Arthur found himself spending more and more time in Alfred's company. Mr Jones often invited him and Aila at his place, sometimes they even went out together – to get an ice-cream, have a walk in the woods, Mr Jones even accompanied them for a trip of an entire day to an amusement park, once. Arthur found out that, while playing with Alfred wasn't the same as playing with Lovino, it could still be fun, and the way the child seemed to follow his words was flattering to say at least. Things went on that way for a while, until a warm day at the beginning of August, when Aila called Arthur in the kitchen.

"Sit down. I have to tell you something important, Arthur," she stated.

In spite of the apparent calm in her voice, her hands were slightly trembling, and she had to take a deep breath before going on.

"You… you certainly have realized that I have been spending a lot of time with George, lately. What do you think of him?"

"I like him," Arthur answered easily, hoping to reassure his mother. "I really do. He's interesting and fun and he knows so many stuff... and I like Alfred, too."

His mother nodded, offering him a small smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Well… so do I. Arthur, do you… do you remember anything about your father?"

The child shook his head, taken aback by the unexpected question.

Aila took another deep breath.

"Well, I loved him. I loved him with all my heart, and I would have spent my entire life at his side in heartbeat. But this didn't happen. And… I will always love him. I can guarantee you this. But… he's not here anymore, and I've had to move on."

And suddenly, all the pieces clicked into place. His eyes widening, Arthur was abruptly reminded of the words Alfred had uttered the first time he had met him. It sounded crazy, and yet…

"Mum, are you going to marry Mr Jones?!" Arthur asked in a single breath, the words pouring out of his mouth before he could even realize what he was saying.

Aila paled, then she ran a hand through her hair.

"Well… yes, Arthur. I'm going to marry George. I know that this is a big change and it's going to take some time to get used to it, but…"

Arthur interrupted her.

"Are you going to be happy, Mum?"

They both knew the answer. They had both seen the changes that had occurred after meeting George Jones. This time, Aila's smile lit her entire face, her eyes were so bright that for a moment she reminded Arthur of the girl in the old pictures.

"Yes, Arthur. Yes, I am."

And that was enough for Arthur.

But of course, things could never go smoothly for them. A couple of days later, his older brothers showed up together, their faces dark. They were careful not to discuss things in front of Arthur, but the child still heard snippets of the whispered conversations.

"This is too early, you've barely known him for a couple of months," Alistair would hiss. "I know that you're worried for Arthur, but marrying another man won't solve the issue."

"And what about Dad? Have you forgotten about him?"

"This is just… it doesn't make sense, Mum. You're rushing too much."

Anger surged in Arthur's chest each time he saw his mother's smile grow more forced, the creases on her face deeper.

"Why are you so selfish?!" he yelled the first time he managed to corner his brothers while Aila wasn't at home. "Why don't you want her to be happy? She's happier now!"

His brothers exchanged a tired glance, sighing in unison. Alistair shook his head, but Dylan was the one who talked in the end, crouching down to be at Arthur's level.

"I understand why you think like this, Arthur," he started saying in a condescending voice, "But you're still very young, and you don't even remember Dad, so you cannot understand… but you see, this isn't right. Mum is probably having a hard time, but… she was married to Dad. It's not right of her to go and marry another man, and surely not one she's known for such a little time."

Anger was clawing at Arthur's insides. His brothers weren't listening to him, dismissing him only because he was a child, even he could clearly see what their blind eyes couldn't grasp.

"But Dad isn't here anymore, and Mum doesn't have to be miserable for her entire life. Dad would want her to be happy too if he really loved her!"

His brother merely looked at each other, shaking their heads. Arthur truly hated them, at that moment.

Luckily, there were people who understood. Mr Vargas had immediately offered Aila his congratulations and started suggesting places for the reception, while Felicia was already making flower crowns for the wedding. And then there was Alfred.

The first time he had seen Arthur after the announcement he had jumped at his neck, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy.

"You're going to be my big brother!" he had yelled.

And Arthur, his chest invaded by a sudden warmth, had realized that Alfred truly meant what he was saying. Alfred still didn't know what having older brothers truly meant, but he looked so genuinely happy… and it fell on Arthur not to shatter the illusion, now. One day Alfred was probably going to learn the truth, but it wasn't going to be because of Arthur, he swore to himself. He was going to do his best to be a better older brother than his ones.

In spite of his older brothers' discontent, the day of the marriage finally came at the end of September, not long after the beginning of the school. The sunrays still carried some residual warmth from the Summer, basking the orchard and the small crowd gathered there in their golden glow.

It wasn't a big reception, just some close friends had been invited. There were the Vargas, some friends of George from the university, Aunt Eileen and Uncle Samuel had come from Ireland with Patrick, and Arthur's brothers were standing together in line, tall and handsome in their suits. For how much they had complained previously, today they were smiling, not even they could completely ruin Aila's day.

George Jones looked 10 years younger than usual, dressed in an elegant dark blue suit that made his eyes shine and wearing a smile that never slipped from his face. He looked incredibly handsome, the poster-picture of the American man.

Arthur, however, had eyes only for his mother. His heart missed a beat when he saw her walking towards the pastor, so radiant that her joy seemed to inundate the entire audience. Arthur couldn't help but compare her to the old picture of the first wedding.

Aila had been so young then, with her face clean and her straight red hair going down to her waist. She had been wearing an elaborated dress as white as the snow, with a light veil on her head.

Arthur's mother was completely different now. Her hair had been cut to her chin, with only a blue hat on the top, and the dress was soberer, a simple elegant white dress that had some blue accents the same colour as her hat. There was no denying that she was older and much mature than the girl Arthur remembered from the pictures, yet at the same time her lime green eyes seemed to glow just as much as they had that day, so much time ago. Arthur felt himself blessed for having the opportunity of witnessing such an expression on his mother's face, he had never thought he would actually be able to see it, and he couldn't take his eyes off her.

The boy was finally pulled out of his reverie by the warm touch of a small hand over his.

"Alfred?"

There was something wrong with the child, he realized suddenly as his stomach twisted. Alfred's features were unnaturally sober, his eyes shadowed by emotions that Arthur couldn't read.

"What's wrong? Why are you sad?"

The child shook his head.

"I'm not… sad," he muttered, frowning in a way that was far too adult. "I'm glad that Dad is getting married to your Mom. But… I wish Mattie was here. Mama didn't let him come."

Arthur had to bite his tongue at that. _'Of course she didn't, that would have been inappropriate,'_ he wanted to say. Nobody ever talked about 'Mattie' except for Alfred, all Arthur knew was that Alfred's mother lived in Canada with him. Her new boyfriend, or possibly husband. A _homewrecker_. Arthur knew about them, this was how his mother had called aunt Lillian when it had turned out that she was blackmailing three rich married men, making each of them believe that he was Oliver's father. From the way his mother had almost spit the word out of her tightly pressed lips, Arthur had understood that messing with married people was a Very Bad Thing.

The reason Mattie _(Matthew?)_ hadn't been invited to the wedding was obvious, but Alfred seemed strangely fond of the man and genuinely crushed by his absence. Moreover, he was only six years old, too young to fully face the cruel reality.

Arthur had only a split of a second to make his decision.

"But you aren't alone," he declared boldly, taking Alfred's hands and squeezing it firmly. "I'm here with you."

The way Alfred smiled after those words made something stir inside Arthur's chest in a way he had never thought to be possible. He had never thought that he could matter so much for somebody.

* * *

The days following the wedding were odd. Aila and Arthur moved to George's house. It made sense, considering that they hadn't even finished unpacking from their old house, but that meant that Arthur didn't live next to Lovino anymore – which he found himself regretting quite a lot. Sure, they would have play-dates and Alfred would tag along while they were playing, but it wasn't the same.

Having George around all the time was quite weird as well, but not in an unpleasant way. He wasn't Mum – Arthur would probably never trust him as much as he trusted his mother – but he was another _adult_. Arthur had never truly realized how much _easier_ everything was with two adults in the house instead of only one. Now it wasn't only Aila who had to worry about the house, the bills, cleaning and cooking and all that grown-up stuff, George was there as well. Arthur could clearly see how much less exhausted his mother was, how she would have time to read him and Alfred stories before bed-time.

The change that unsettled Arthur more than anything else, actually, was Alfred himself. The first few days – the first week, even – had been fine. Alfred was overenthusiastic, constantly blabbering and jumping around and demanding Arthur's attention, but the boy had chalked it to the excitement for the change, and he had figured that it would simmer down with the time.

Except it didn't.

Apparently, hyperactivity wasn't Alfred's reaction to something exciting, it was his default mode. And it was driving Arthur crazy. The boy had been used to a fairly quiet house when his brothers weren't rowing, and even then he had always had a corner to relax and read. Suddenly, it wasn't like that anymore. Alfred would start talking while they were having breakfast and Arthur was still half-asleep, go on during the way to school, continue as soon as he saw Arthur on the way back, he would run around, demanding to do the same, interrupt Arthur when he was reading to ask something about the book and then go on asking endless questions.

A couple of times, Arthur got dangerously close to snapping at him. He opened his mouth, ready to put his sharp tongue to use – and each time, his brain was invaded by the recollection of the day he had met Alfred. Of how he had tried to defend him without even knowing the situation, of the child's bright, trusting eyes.

Arthur remembered also something else: he remembered all the times that one of his brothers would rudely shove him off when he tried to play with them, of how they complained that he was disturbing. Each time, a weight dropped on his stomach as he realized that he would be no better than any of them if he didn't show Alfred any kindness. So he bit back his snarky remarks and instead offered Alfred to read the book for him.

"I'm sorry, but you have to be patient with him. He's so excited at the thought of having an older brother…" George would say, his lips barely curved in an apologetic half-smile, and Arthur would promise himself even more to take care of Alfred.

At one point, George probably told Alfred to let Arthur have some time for himself because Arthur found himself having some free hours every day, while the younger child played on his own or tried to draw.

Eventually, he started getting used to Alfred's presence, and that was enough to start noticing the positive aspects again: how Alfred seemed to religiously listen to him when he told him stories, the genuine trust Arthur could see reflected in those incredible cornflower blue eyes. He could appreciate Alfred's laughter, the way his positive attitude, adorable stubbornness and outgoing demeanour seemed to light every room he was in.

When Alfred started learning how to read, Arthur was the one he went to ask for help, leaving the boy pleasantly surprised. Even greater was the surprise when Arthur realized that he didn't actually mind helping Alfred: the way the younger boy listened to him, his forehead creased in concentration, was met by a strange sense of satisfaction. The day Alfred finally got it and started proudly reading every word he could see was the proudest day of Arthur's life. He could feel warmth blossom inside his chest, couldn't restrain the smile on his lips every time Alfred turned to him for confirmation of his progress.

Maybe that was what being a brother was like: not exactly a friend, something more like a mentor. Somebody who would be an example for the younger child, who could help him with those small tasks. Arthur decided that he liked that.

He didn't fully realise how much Alfred had come to mean for him, however, until a day of November. Arthur's class had been let out for recess, and he was calmly chatting with Lovino when his ears caught a couple of children of another class discussing among themselves.

"…Do you think we should call a teacher?" a dark-haired girl was saying, her eyes darting to a spot behind the corner.

One of the two boys who were with her shrugged.

"Nah. James's a bully, it wouldn't change anything… if anything, that kid would even get into more troubles for being a snitch. Seriously, leave it alone, he'll learn not to mess with James."

Arthur and Lovino exchanged a glance, identical frowns creasing their foreheads. Arthur saw a glimpse of fear in his friend's eyes, and found it completely justified: James was a child in their grade and the classic example of a bully. Being born in October, he was already 11 and bigger than most of the other children, which he used to his advantage to terrorize them. Nobody dared to mess with him, and not calling the teachers was probably for the best – Arthur hadn't been there when it had happened, but he knew that somebody had done that the previous year. After James's suspension, the child had 'tripped' down the stairs and broken his arm.

The girl who had been talking earlier, however, seemed conflicted.

"I know," Arthur heard her mutter as she chewed on her lower lip. "But… That kid's so little… I think he's a first-grader, and he looked so antagonistic that James isn't going to let it go. I… I think he might really hurt him…"

Arthur's blood ran cold in his veins, the breath was blocked in his lungs.

A first-grader… ever first-graders knew that they shouldn't mess with James. But Arthur knew who would still do it if he thought James was doing something wrong…

Arthur hadn't even realized that his feet had started moving. A moment later, he found himself in front of the girl and grabbed her shoulder.

"Where are they?!" he hissed, glowering.

"Hey, Arthur, calm down…" he heard Lovino say, but didn't pay any heed to it.

"At… at the see-saw," the girl answered shakily, her eyes wide. "What…"

But Arthur wasn't listening to her anymore, he was already into motion, his stomach churning at the thought of what could be happening with every instant he was away.

"Call a bloody teacher!" he yelled at Lovino, not even bothering to look back as his feet carried him through the lawn.

The see-saw was just around the corner, no more than a minute away, but to Arthur, it felt like centuries as his heart thundered in his chest and his legs moved faster than they ever had, his mind couldn't process any thought except for an all-consuming, blinding fear.

Every second he was away was another second something could happen. Another second James's hands could leave bloody, dark marks on the unblemished skin, and Arthur couldn't deal with it. He just couldn't, his heart was threatening to explode in his chest.

Finally, Arthur arrived at his destination, a name on his lips even before he could assess the situation.

"Alfred!"

Everything seemed to freeze as Arthur skidded to a halt.

James – big, tall James, with his longish hair tied back in a tail that made him look like a thug, his beefy firsts ready to hit – slowly turned towards the noise, his eyes narrowing without managing to hide a glimpse of surprise.

But Arthur didn't care about him.

At that moment, all he could think about was the small frame that was on the ground. Alfred – _of course, of course it was Alfred, no other child would be so reckless to defy James, but Alfred had even tried to fight against an adult man, of course he would do that –_ looked paler than usual, his eyes wide.

"Arthur?" he asked in a shaky voice.

Arthur's blood boiled with rage at the sound. Alfred's voice shouldn't be that small, he shouldn't be afraid of anything – and he wasn't, actually. Or at least, he was trying not to show it – _that brave, foolish child_ – Arthur could see tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, but he was clearly trying to restrain them.

Arthur's eyes immediately scanned over him. He didn't seem badly hurt, but he was sitting down, holding his left knee. When Alfred's hands shifted, Arthur caught a glimpse of red that they were covering. _Blood_. Alfred's knee was skinned.

Later, Arthur wouldn't be able to recall what exactly happened at that moment. It was like a switch had been flipped – all he knew was that nobody was allowed to Alfred. Nobody. The white-hot rage invaded Arthur's mind, the blood pounded in his ears.

He didn't think – there was no space left for thinking. Only the knowledge that James had hurt Alfred, a child five years younger than him. Arthur's little brother.

With a roar, Arthur lunged at James, knocking him flat on the ground in spite of his considerably smaller form. Without leaving him a moment to recover, he started hitting any surface he could find – his chest, his face, his shoulders – anything. There was some yelling, but Arthur's ears were ringing too much to make out any word.

James tried to defend himself, a first to his face send Arthur reeling, but the child ignored the flash of pain and only heightened his efforts. Arthur didn't move from his position until a pair of adult hands grabbed him, tearing him away from the bigger boy.

Arthur struggled for a moment, yelling, before his ears registered the sound of Lovino's voice.

"Arthur! Arthur, stop!"

Arthur went limp. For a moment he just stayed still, panting, the hands never relinquishing their hold on him as the world gradually came back to focus.

James was still on the ground, with a teacher Arthur knew only in passing holding him down by his shoulder as he murmured something. His face was a bloody mess, his already swelling eyes were fixed on Arthur. There was a glint of shocked fear in them.

"Arthur Kirkland. To the headmaster's office, now."

The voice belonged to Mr Graham, Arthur's PE teacher – who was also the man holding him, Arthur realized suddenly. He couldn't answer, his mouth felt dry, and he was gradually becoming aware that his hands were hurting, coated in a warm liquid. _James's blood_. A distant corner of Arthur's mind was aware that it was supposed to be a bad thing, and in spite of that, he didn't feel like he had done anything wrong. He didn't feel anything.

Arthur let himself be led away by the strong hands, too dazed to react.

"Alfred?" he asked uncertainly, looking quizzically at his teacher.

"He's all right. You stopped James before he could hurt him," answered Lovino, prompting Arthur to snap his head towards him.

The other boy was looking at him strangely, with his eyes wide, a mixture of fear and respect on his face. But, more importantly, behind him, Arthur could see Alfred. A young woman that Arthur recognized as the child's English teacher was talking to him, pointing at his knee, and two other children had joined him, but Alfred was only looking at Arthur, his eyes wide.

"Alfred, are you all right?" Arthur called, twisting against his teacher's grasp.

Only after the child's small nod the boy relaxed, sagging. He still couldn't process what had happened – but Alfred wasn't hurt. That was the most important thing.

As it turned out later, Alfred had become James's target when he had tried to stop him from mocking a Polish child who still couldn't speak English properly and had made the mistake to make a flower crown, something apparently 'too girlish' according to James. Amused by Alfred's attempt to resist him, James had let the verbal spat go on for a while, and by the time Arthur had arrived he had only pushed Alfred to the ground, without having enough time to do more damage.

Which made Arthur's reaction inexcusable, apparently.

Now, he was enduring a stern lecture by the headmaster, while his mother nodded solemnly next to him. Her face was thunderous, Arthur's stomach twisted at the thought of the what he would have to pay once he got home – yet, it would be worth it. He was going to face it without complaining.

Or so he thought until the headmaster got to the last part of the punishment.

"And you will write an apology letter to James, explaining…"

"No."

Arthur's heart was racing, but his voice somehow sounded steely.

Both the headmaster and his mother gaped at him, their eyes wide with shock.

"I will _not_ apologize," Arthur spat out, straightening up to try and appear bigger. "I don't regret it. He was going to hurt Alfred! I will never, ever forgive him for it!"

The two adults needed a couple of moments to let the words sink in, then hell broke loose. They scolded and threatened, but Arthur wasn't going to budge.

In the end, he got sent to the corridor while his mother apologized and explained how it was a difficult period for Arthur, having just moved from another country and with her remarrying. That wasn't the problem, but Arthur didn't care – because finally, finally, he could see Alfred after the ordeal.

The child was standing at the end of the corridor, fidgeting on his feet as his teacher tried and failed to get his attention. He still looked pale, but under the hole in his jeans Arthur could see a white bandage. He had been taken care of.

The child's eyes widened when he caught sight of Arthur.

"Artie!" he called as he ran towards him, and a moment later Arthur was hit by a trembling mass.

When the small arms snaked around him, Arthur reciprocated the hug firmly.

"It's all right," he muttered into the child's hair, "That bastard isn't going to hurt you anymore, I promise. I'll get him in a body cast if he even tries thinking about it."

Arthur wasn't actually sure that he could have accomplished such task – James was much bigger than him, he still didn't know how he had managed to overpower him, but Alfred seemed to believe him because he nodded solemnly.

"That was scary," he declared, "I had to defend Feliks because James was making fun of him, but I wasn't strong enough… I wanted to be the Hero. But you were the Hero this time, Artie."

Arthur found himself chuckling in front of the child's innocence, the tension slowly wearing down.

"Well, let's say I borrowed the title for a bit. Just to fight such a big villain… until you're big enough to do it on your own, all right? For now, you can be a hero with smaller sized villains. I'll deal with bigger ones."

Alfred didn't seem too convinced but he slowly nodded, his brow slightly furrowed, before smiling again, looking at Alfred with his bright, trusting eyes.

Arthur ended up being suspended for two weeks and grounded for an entire month, but it was completely worth it. He could understand now, that was another piece of being a big brother: protect his little brother until he could stand on his own. Once again, it was a task that he didn't mind, because there was nothing more unpleasant than thinking about Alfred getting hurt. It wasn't going to happen again on Arthur's watch.

Aside from Arthur's realization, nothing seemed to truly change between him and Alfred after the accident. They would play, Arthur would help Alfred with his homework, sometimes they would bicker, but Arthur was careful to be never as mean as his brothers had been, and he never scolded Alfred: his father did that, after all.

Everything continued being the same until a stormy night at the end of November.

Arthur liked that weather, he enjoyed being warm and cosy under the blankets as the fury of the elements raged outside, accompanied by occasional flashes followed by the loud grumbling of thunders. He was letting himself being lulled to sleep by the raindrops hitting his window when a faint screech announced his door opening.

"Artie?" asked immediately a small voice.

"What's up?" Arthur replied as he turned to look at his younger brother, yawning.

Under the moonlight, the child's eyes looked wide and his pale skin had a silvery glint. He fidgeted at the door, seemingly unsure of how to answer, then a thunder made him yelp, his eyes widening even more as he looked around.

"Oh… are you afraid of the storm?" Arthur asked, sitting up on the bed.

Alfred nodded fervently.

"It sounds like monsters," he muttered, taking a few steps into Arthur's bedroom.

"Oh…"

Arthur frowned, trying to think of a way to placate the child's fears, but Alfred acted before he could speak.

"Can I… Can I sleep with you?"

Caught by surprise by the question, Arthur needed a moment to answer.

"Uh… sure, why not?" he muttered just as another lighting illuminated the room.

With a small shriek, Arthur threw himself at Arthur's bed and slid under the blankets. Arthur realized that the child was trembling.

"It's all right," he murmured, hugging him as he lay back down, nestled under the covers. "The storm is outside, it's not going to hurt you here."

He hadn't expected his words to have any effect, but Alfred's trembling slowly subsided as the child clung to Arthur. Bewildered, the older boy watched him slide into sleep in a matter of minutes, perfectly content.

"What the…" he muttered, looking quizzically at the small frame nestled in his arms.

He was sure that nothing he had said was so impactful… but then, it hit him. It wasn't his words, but his mere presence. He was Alfred's older brother, his protector, and that was enough to make the child feel safe. A sudden warmth spread in Arthur's chest, stealing his breath away.

Being so important for somebody… it was something that he had never experienced before. To have so much trust placed on him… it was almost inebriating.

That was what being an older brother meant, Arthur understood suddenly. It wasn't only giving – protection, advice – but mostly receiving. Receiving so much trust and love that Arthur was almost drowning in that.

A wry smile crossed his lips as he shifted on the bed to settle in a more comfortable position, relishing on the feeling of the warm body tucked against him.

For the entire time, Arthur had thought Alfred to be a fool, but _he_ was the only fool around. Alfred was right, of course. Big brothers – real big brothers – were supposed to be awesome, because that was the only way they could repay that immense trust that had been placed on them. And Arthur realized that he didn't mind the concept one bit.

 **(word count: 6,700)**

* * *

 **Notes : **

Alistairs is Scotland  
Connor is North Ireland  
Dylan is Wales  
Felicia Vargas is Fem!Italy  
Massimo is Rome (I was very undecided between Massimo, from the Latin 'Maximus', which means 'the greatest', and Augusto, but I like Massimo more)  
Patrick is Ireland (Arthur's cousin, the same age as Connor)

The part about Lovino liking fantasy and adventure book is a reference to some recent strips, where he became very involved with chivalric literature.

The part about Arthur being shit at drawing is taken from the manga as well, I remember one strip during the industrial revolution where he couldn't draw decorations to save his life.

Anyway, so this is it for this chapter. Arthur and Alfred are going to grow up next time, they're going to be 14 and 10 for most of the chapter, and Arthur will meet 'Mattie'.

Please consider leaving a comment, if you're interested in this story!


	3. Matthew, Part 1

**Notes : **Soo… here I am. With a chapter that should have been up… two weeks ago, in my plans. I apologize for the delay (but hey, look at this! Super long chapter!), real life got in the way and this chapter proved to be extremely hard to write. As I mentioned in the first chapter, this story was initially supposed to be basically the back-story for two other stories I'm planning – some sort of explanation for Arthur, Alfred and Matthew's family situation. When I decided to expand this, I hadn't properly thought what it truly implied and I found myself quite stranded in dealing with the theme presented in this chapter. I don't think I gave it justice, but I can only hope it's not too much of a mess.

On a lighter note, thank you so much for the favorites, follow, and, especially, your kind words of support! I have to admit that a couple of times I pondered dropping this story and marking it as complete, but I didn't because I knew that somebody was waiting for it. Yes, this is how much feedback means to me. Also, thanks a lot to the two Guest reviewers, since I couldn't thank them personally. To the second one – I'm sorry that my previous stories disappointed you, I hope this one won't be the case!

 **Warnings : **This chapter deals with death and mourning. While the one involved is a minor character, this element is still very much present.

* * *

 **Matthew, Part 1**

The months seemed to pass in a blur for Arthur. Before he could realize it, Thanksgiving came and went, and Christmas holidays made their appearance.

For the first time, all his brothers found themselves under the same roof as George. The awkwardness could be cut with a knife, but Alfred's presence somehow mitigated the worst of the tension. The child's poorly hidden antagonism towards Arthur's older brothers had the odd effect of them trying even harder to win his affection. Bewildered, Arthur assisted to scenes of his usually grumpy older brothers transforming into tender caretakers for the bright-eyed Alfred, bending to any whim the child expressed.

"They're trying to steal him from me!" he complained to his mother, "It's not fair, I am the one who spends all the time with Alfred, he's _my_ little brother! Why can't I have this, at least?"

At the end of the day, however, Arthur was still the first one Alfred looked for when he needed something, be it some help with his homework or reassurances after listening to a scary story, so it was all right.

Arthur's brothers finally left to spend New Year's Eve with their friends, leaving Arthur able to relax once again. Alfred was going to leave as well in a couple of days to spend the last half of his Christmas holidays with his mother, and while Arthur didn't mind the short respite he knew that he would find the house oddly empty after the first few days, just like the other time Alfred had gone to Canada. It was strange how used Arthur had already gotten to his younger brother's presence – for how loud and annoying he could be at times, the way his cheerful disposition and genuine vitality brightened up the entire house was undeniable.

Just the day before leaving, Alfred came to Arthur's room, his face slightly scrunched in the adorable way it did when he was trying to be serious.

"I need your help," he declared immediately, and before Arthur could ask what it was about he continued in a single breath. "You read a lot, so must know a lot of books. I want to buy a gift for Mattie, and he likes reading and he's often lonely, so I wanted to get him a book."

"To Mattie?" Arthur couldn't help but ask, his eyebrows rising.

 _Does George even know this?_

Arthur was aware of Alfred's strange fondness for who had to be his mother's new partner, but it was inappropriate to say at least… and getting him a gift looked very close to stepping over the boundaries.

"Yep!" Alfred answered immediately, beaming. "You know I taught him to read the last time I saw him! And he's actually pretty good at it…"

Arthur _did_ remember that Alfred had come back from his last trip to Canada considerably more confident in his reading skills. He had to give it to this Mattie, pretending to be unable to read so Alfred would be forced to exercise was a truly smart one… Arthur had to admit that Mattie didn't sound that bad, from what Alfred said about him. He _had_ to be a bad person, he was a home-wrecker after all, but maybe… Maybe he hadn't known that Émilie was already married? Or he had started dating her only after the divorce? That sounded more likely…

"…so I need you to help me choose a book for him. He really likes animals, polar bears are his favourite."

Alfred was staring at Arthur with huge, trusting eyes. Arthur's chest constricted at the thought of not being able to grant his requests, yet…

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can help you with this," he answered begrudgingly, "Yes, I read a lot, but adult books are different… I wouldn't know what to choose."

Alfred's features scrunched in confusion before the child let out a small giggle.

"What are you talking about, silly? Duh, it's just Mattie! You know, my little brother Mattie? He's very smart, but he's still only four… he wouldn't read boring adult books!"

 _…What?!_

The time seemed to stop. Arthur could do nothing but gape at Alfred's satisfied face as everything slowly fell into place. Alfred's conviction that older brothers were awesome, that they had to take care of their little siblings… that hadn't come out of nowhere. Alfred believed that because he was an older brother himself. And it completely fitted his personality, Arthur couldn't see him doing anything but taking care of a younger child.

It sounded perfectly logical, and Arthur couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before, yet… it was still a big revelation to swallow.

"Mum!" Arthur called, his feet carrying him out of the door without him even fully realizing it, with a confused Alfred in his wake.

"Mum, why didn't anybody ever tell me that there was a second child?!"

He had never seen Mattie, nor would he probably see him, yet it sounded like such an important piece of information… Not something that should be overlooked.

Aila turned sharply from the burner, her eyebrows raised in confusion.

"Come again?"

"Oh! You're talking about Matthew, aren't you?" intervened unexpectedly George's voice.

The man was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper – in his shock, Arthur hadn't even noticed him.

The boy suddenly realized how inappropriate his question was – maybe, Matthew wasn't even George's child, and questioning about him was incredibly rude…

George, however, looked more surprised than offended.

"Oh, my…" he murmured, shaking his head. "I guess that it never came up in front of you, I hadn't noticed… I'm sorry. Anyway, yes, I have another child, but he was born after the divorce, so he lives with Émilie. I thought you knew. This is why I go with Alfred when he's visiting his mother, so I can see him…"

"Oh…"

A part of Arthur's mind registered the meaning of George's words, but most of him still couldn't come to terms with it. It was just… something too big. Too important. He couldn't believe that he had never been informed about that.

"But I _did_ tell you!" Alfred protested, pouting. "I've talked about Mattie many times!"

Arthur blushed as he realized how far his misunderstanding had gone, but he wasn't going to let himself be embarrassed like that.

"Yes, but you never told me he was your little brother! You only told me that your mother lived with him in Canada. And since nobody else ever mentioned him, I thought he was her partner or something…"

Arthur's voice trailed off as he realized how indelicate his words were. He risked a timid glance at his mother, but before she could say anything George snorted.

"Mattie being Émilie's boyfriend… Oh God, that's gold." The man chuckled, shaking his head as he shuffled with his pocket. "I'm sorry that this never came up. I really am, Arthur. Anyway, this is Matthew."

Arthur moved closer as George opened his wallet and extracted a small, squared picture portraying two children standing in front of a pond. Alfred was beaming, his eyes sparkling, and he had his left arm wrapped around the shoulders of a smaller child who looked surprisingly similar to him – and at the same time, was completely different. Matthew's features closely resembled Alfred's, yet they were subtly more delicate. His skin looked porcelain-white, even lighter than Arthur's, his eyes were a startling lilac and the wavy strawberry blond hair that framed his head and curled around his chin gave the impression of being incredibly soft. There was something about him that reminded Arthur of the small angels in the paintings Mr Vargas had shown him. And it wasn't only that – the child looked hesitant, his smile was fainter than Alfred's, and he was almost hiding against his brother's body as if he didn't quite know how to behave in front of the camera.

Arthur kept staring at the picture until his mother's hand landed lightly on his shoulder. Only then he raised his head, looking from her to George as he tried to sort through the lingering confusion at the unexpected discovery. He didn't quite know what to feel.

"Does this mean that I have another little brother, now?" he asked in the end, his eyes running back to the shy-looking child in the picture.

"But Mattie lives with Mama," Alfred answered immediately, voicing Arthur's own doubt. "And he's _my_ little brother. He's not yours! You have me. And I have Mattie. I don't share!"

The child pouted, folding his arms across his chest as Arthur raised his eyebrows, taken aback by the reaction.

"Alfred!" George immediately scolded him, "Matthew is your little brother, he's not your property! But…" the man hesitated for a moment, his eyes running to Aila before settling back on Arthur. "I don't know what Matthew is to you, legally speaking. I guess that he could be your step-brother as well, but since he still lives with Émilie you aren't really going to interact with him…"

There was something more to it. Arthur could tell it from the way George's features were tight, but his mother's hand tightened slightly over his shoulder, signalling that it wasn't the right time to satiate his curiosity.

"Can we stop talking about this, now?" Alfred whined with a small stomp of his feet. "Arthur, you have to help me choose a book for Mattie!"

"Oh, yes. I can do that," Arthur answered, trying to shake off the dazed surprise still enveloping him.

"You want to get a book for Mattie?" George asked at the same time.

Alfred beamed at him, puffing his chest with pride.

"Yep! I taught him to read last time I saw him! And yesterday Mama told me that he's sick, so he won't be able to play out with us… At least he'll have a book to read!"

While Alfred's words had sounded completely innocent to Arthur, the lines around George's eyes tightened.

"He's sick again? Wasn't he sick a couple of weeks ago, too?"

Aila moved to stand next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Didn't you say that he's four? This is normal. Children that age get sick very easily…"

George shook his head as he turned to look at his wife.

"Is it? I don't really think so… Alfred got sick three times since he was born."

Aila chuckled at that.

"Ah, but Alfred is the anomaly here, believe me – a little Superhero, I'd say—" she ruffled Alfred's hair, who smiled with pride at her words. "Most children get sick quite often, with their immune system still in development. Trust me, I know – when Ali, Connie and Dyl were little it was a nightmare. I could hardly go a week without any of them being sick… with Arthur it was a little better because he's only one, but he was still ill quite often. I don't think you should be too concerned…"

While George was nodding, there was still something off about the entire situation. Something Arthur couldn't place his fingers on, but that was making him quite uncomfortable, and at the same time he didn't dare to ask.

"Well then," George declared a moment later, getting up from the chair. "I think that your idea is very sweet, Alfred – go get changed and then we'll go looking for a book, all right?"

He was smiling again, and that was enough for Alfred – and almost for Arthur, too. He still wondered what everything was about, but a stern glare from his mother was all he needed to understand that it was grown-up matters he shouldn't concern himself with.

Soon, Arthur's mood was lightened again by Alfred's visible excitement at the trip, and he forgot his concerns as he found himself once again involved in his role as a mentor, flattered by the trust his younger brother seemed to place in him. They ended up choosing a beautifully illustrated book about a polar bear cub who was travelling in search of his mother and made many friends along the way.

Only a couple of days later, feeling strangely lonely in the empty house in spite of finally having a chance to relax, Arthur found the courage to ask his mother about Matthew and George's uneasiness.

"It's quite a complicated situation," was the only answer he received. "It was a bad divorce, so George and _that woman_ aren't exactly on good terms now."

In his mother's pinched lips and sparkling eyes, combined with the way she had addressed George's former wife, Arthur read an absolute disdain towards the other woman. There was something _more_ to the story, something Arthur itched to know, but his mother's stony expression told him that it wasn't his place to ask.

A week later, Alfred came back, vibrating with excitement and full of stories about a snow-filled land and winter sports, eager to share everything with Arthur. Half an hour into a tale of his (exaggerated, Arthur could bet) prowess with the snowboard, Alfred was called down by his father.

"Oh, right!" he exclaimed suddenly, his hand going for his pocket. "This is for you!"

He handed Arthur a crumpled piece of paper before running out of the door. Perplexed, the boy smoothened the paper through his fingers, his eyes focusing on a couple of pencil-written lines.

 _"DEAR ARTHUR, THANK YOU FOR THE BOOK. I LIKE IT A LOT. I WAS SAD WHEN THE BEAR COULD NOT FIND HIS MAMA, BUT THEN HE MADE FRIENDS AND I WAS HAPPY._

 _SINCERELY,_

 _MATTHEW"_

Arthur kept staring at the piece of paper as a smile tugged at his lips. He hadn't been expecting an answer to his efforts, nor had been expecting to interact with Matthew – yet, those shaky words on a crumpled piece of paper made him feel some sort of kinship towards the young child. There was a connection between the two of them, now – not the same Arthur had with Alfred, but still something that couldn't be ignored.

Thus began Arthur's correspondence with Matthew. Every time Alfred went to visit the rest of his family, Arthur would choose a book for Matthew, and he would receive in change some written lines from the child. As time passed by, Arthur started choosing more difficult books, books that he himself had loved – _Momo_ , _The Endless Story_ , _The Chronicles of Narnia_ , _Harry Potter_ … – and the letters started becoming longer and more elaborate, reporting the child's impressions and thoughts. While they never met face to face, Arthur got to know Matthew through those words.

Matthew seemed a smart child with a vivid imagination, yet Arthur had the impression that there was something holding him back, a sort of loneliness and insecurity that seeped through his words. Alfred's tales about his younger brother seemed to confirm that.

"Mattie's very shy," he would tell Arthur, his expression as serious as it could get. "And he speaks so softly that sometimes people don't even hear him. He doesn't stand up for himself, doesn't complain if other kids treat him badly. This is why I have to take care of him. Because I'm his big brother, and I'm the Hero!"

In his convinced words and earnest eyes, Arthur could understand more and more the way Alfred had formed his ideas about older brothers, and he found himself finally wholeheartedly agreeing with him. His brothers had been the problem, but maybe most people weren't like that. Alfred wasn't, and it was the same for Arthur. Taking care of Alfred had become one of his priorities, and it was starting to involve Matthew as well, even if in an indirect way.

It wasn't until three years later that Arthur finally dared to ask George if he would ever be allowed to meet Matthew in person, and got the real story behind the divorce.

"You know, Émilie and I were together for years before getting married," George told him, suddenly looking older than he was, his face signed by the age. "We had a pretty wild life. We would travel a lot, party… we had fun. When Émilie got pregnant with Alfred, we decided to get married, because why not? We loved each other, after all. And we weren't so young anymore, it was time to start living more responsibly, anyway. Or so I had thought. While we never explicitly talked about this, I naively assumed that Émilie agreed with me as well – she had calmed down a bit, while she was pregnant. But then Alfred was born and she wanted to get back to her old life."

George had to stop to take a sip of water, his features hardened in a way that almost scared Arthur.

"But the thing is, Arthur, when you have a child, everything changes. You can't just go back to living the way you did before – your child is your priority, now. You have to care for him, to educate him, you can't just spend the night drinking in a bar and getting drunk every weekend. So we started fighting. She said that I wanted to hold her back, that I didn't want her to be free just because she was a woman. Never mind that I had completely changed my lifestyle, too. It got so bad that we ended up divorcing. And then…"

George took a deep breath, his voice breaking slightly. He was looking at Arthur without truly seeing him, his eyes had a hunted look.

"I did something truly despicable. You see, I was so worried about Alfred that I didn't think about anything else, at the moment… Émilie didn't usually get drunk when Alfred was around, she had only once and seemingly regretted it a lot. Yet, I was afraid that it was going to happen again, and I had the footage to prove it already had. So I used it, and got full custody of Alfred."

A wry smile crossed his lips.

"But I didn't know that Émilie was pregnant again. She probably hadn't known either, when we started the practice, and then she never told me… and Matthew was hers, now. To be allowed to see him, I made some private arrangements with Émilie – she can see Alfred, and I can see Matthew. But she's the only one who has any legal right to Matthew, and she didn't like the fact that I got married again. I don't think that she'll ever allow Matthew to visit or you to come with us, not until Matthew is quite older, at least."

Arthur realized at that moment that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled shakily, staring wide-eyed at George.

"But… If she drinks… then Matthew…?"

George shook his head.

"Oh, she actually got better," he answered bitterly. "I like to think that the footage shook her a bit at least, made her understand what she was doing. I can't deny that I worry for Matthew, but there's really nothing I can do it. But believe me, if I had any shred of evidence that she was mistreating him in any way I would file a lawsuit straight away."

Arthur nodded slowly, an unpleasant sinking feeling in his stomach. While Émilie wasn't mistreating Matthew, Arthur couldn't forget how his long letters, the eagerness he answered to Arthur with seemed something like a cry for help. At the same time, Arthur was now old enough to understand that some situations were complicated, that sometimes there was no way to do the right thing. It left a bitter taste in his mouth that lingered even after he watched Alfred, the picture of happiness as he played in the garden with some friends of his – while he was happy for him, he couldn't truly forget about Matthew. He deserved that, too.

In spite of his feelings, Arthur knew that there was nothing he could do about Matthew's situation save responding his letters, so he eventually accepted the fact that he wasn't going to see him for some years, until Matthew would be a teen and allowed to have more freedom of movement. While it was still very early, Arthur knew that George was trying to arrange for Matthew to spend an exchange year in America, and Émilie wasn't completely opposed to the suggestion, seeing how it could have a positive impact on the boy's curriculum.

Arthur should have known that things rarely go as planned.

One year later, the boy crossed the doorway one afternoon to find his mother waiting for him, unnaturally pale, with the phone in her hands. Even stranger was George, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands.

"Mum? What's wrong?!" Arthur asked immediately, his stomach knotting.

George raised his head at that, staring at Arthur with lost, wide eyes that made him look like a confused child. His features, paler than Arthur had ever seen, were slack with shock.

The boy found himself paralyzed, his throat closing off as his brain tried to come up with an answer for George's terrifying expression. At the same time, he didn't truly want to think, because only something truly bad might have caused such a reaction, and…

"Arthur!"

Aila's voice brought him violently back to reality. In spite of the confusion Arthur could see in her posture and hands, his mother's face was set in determination.

"I need you to go pick up Alfred. Now. He's at Tolys's."

A wave of relief washed over Arthur, letting him able to breathe again. His mother wouldn't have asked him that if something had happened to Alfred, she would have taken care of that herself. In spite of that, something was still wrong. Something bad.

"What happened?" he couldn't help but ask.

Aila's eyes darted to George as her forehead furrowed. She hesitated a moment before answering Arthur.

"It's Émilie. Car accident…"

Arthur's blood ran cold in his veins.

"Is she…"

George's broken sob was as good as an answer. Arthur could only stare at his mother, his mouth open in horror. He wanted to say something, but his brain seemed unable to produce any word.

 _How am I going to tell Alfred?_

Alfred didn't deserve that. Alfred was such a wonderful child, so happy and optimistic… and while he had quickly warmed up to Aila, even getting to call her 'Mum' after a couple of months, he was still close to him 'Mama'. Losing her would be… completely devastating. Arthur couldn't even imagine how it would feel… how could he even tell that to Alfred?

"Arthur!"

There was a frantic edge in his mother's voice, she was trying to keep her cool but she was close to panicking as well, her hands were trembling – but of course, the situation must be horrible for her. It was a wonder that she could still be so calm, while George was relieving what she had with Henry… Arthur took a step towards her, forcing himself to straighten his shoulder to appear more adult.

"Mum, are you…"

Aila violently shook her head.

"Don't worry about me, love." She managed to offer Arthur a small, strained smile. "Just go and get Alfred, okay? You don't have to tell him anything, George and I will explain the situation to him – just say that something urgent came up."

Arthur nodded, unable to shake the numbness he was feeling. His mind was alternating between the thoughts of how strong his mother was, and how crushed Alfred was going to be.

Arthur was almost out of the door when another horrifying thought hit him like a punch in the gut, leaving him breathless for a moment.

"And what about Matthew?!"

Aila froze. A strange glint went through her eyes before she managed to compose herself.

"He was in the car too. He's alive but… in the hospital. We don't know how bad he is."

Arthur's head was spinning. He opened and closed his mouth, struggling for air.

 _In the hospital. We don't know how bad he is._

Matthew. The gentle child who had no friends and took refuge in books, just like Arthur had done for many years. The child who smiled timidly from the pictures with Alfred, yet was apparently able to destroy him on the ice.

 _We don't know how bad he is._

Arthur hadn't even ever talked to him. And now he could be dying. He was _eight years old._

"Arthur, please! I— Matthew will be fine, I'm sure. But now I need you to get Alfred."

Arthur knew that his mother was lying. At the same time, he suddenly realized that she was relying on him. She was on the point of breaking down, yet she was forcing herself to be strong for George… Arthur wasn't a child anymore. He should be helping as well.

With a jerky nod, the boy took off.

Arthur didn't remember how he got to Tolys's house, his brain stuck on thoughts about Matthew and Alfred, Émilie, and how everything would change now. Arthur didn't want things to change.

"I need to get Alfred home. There was an emergency," was all he could say as Mrs Laurinaitis opened the door.

Understanding shone in the woman's gentle green eyes.

"I'll get him for you," she answered in a sweet voice, "But you need to sit down. And a glass of water."

As he opened his mouth to refuse, Arthur realized that the woman was right: he needed to calm down. He was there for Alfred, who was going to have horrible news in a matter of minutes. Arthur panicking wouldn't help one bit. He let himself be let to the kitchen by Mrs Laurinaitis's gentle hand on his back and sipped a glass of icy water as she went to fetch Alfred, barely aware of the liquid sliding down his throat.

Arthur's chest constricted as Alfred approached him, smiling in spite of the questioning glint in eyes. Those bright, innocent eyes. It could be the last time Arthur saw them.

"Is that a surprise?" Alfred asked, bouncing on his feet.

Arthur wanted to cry. Instead, he shook his head and mustered the best smile he could manage.

"Your Dad will tell you once we get home."

And Alfred simply followed him, clearly confused about the entire thing but trusting. Arthur's chest ached with the knowledge of how much that expression was going to change.

When they arrived home, George had managed to compose himself. While pale, his expression was forcefully calm, but Arthur couldn't forget how he had seen him. As the man led Alfred to the kitchen, Arthur's eyes remained glued to their back.

Only when his mother gently laid a hand on his shoulder Arthur diverted his gaze.

"What now?" He asked, his voice trembling.

His mother's sad eyes looked tired. She didn't lie.

"It's not going to be easy. Alfred might not have spent a lot of time with Émilie, but she was still his mother. And he's still very young. He's going to recover, but... It's going to take some time. This isn't something that you can just magically make better, but... You can help. Just be there for him."

It sounded like a too abstract concept. The true meaning was _'there's nothing you can do to help'._

As Alfred's tearful refusal to accept what had happened rose from the kitchen, Arthur had never felt that powerless.

For the following hours, he paced restlessly around the living room, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach. Meanwhile, Aila was occupied with an endless series of phone calls, arranging a flight to Canada for the following day and taking care of all the necessary things – arranging their day off work, cancelling a dentist's appointment – Arthur couldn't concentrate enough to listen. The only thing that mattered was that he and his mother were leaving as well. There was no way he was going to leave Alfred alone.

Alfred has stopped screaming after a bit, but Arthur didn't see him again until hours later, when George emerged from the kitchen with his features signed by grief and the child in his arms. The sight of Alfred's pale, tear-streaked face made a horrible weight drop in Arthur's stomach.

"Sweetheart, I have to let go of you for a bit now, I need to make some call," George murmured sweetly as Aila signed him to come closer.

Artur automatically stepped next to his step-father, holding out his arms. It didn't matter that Alfred wasn't exactly light and Arthur himself sort of scrawny for his age – the teen received the weight of younger brother and didn't let go of him when the child's arms clamped around him but returned the hold with the same intensity. Wordlessly, he sat down on the couch and wrapped a warm blanket around both of them. Alfred buried his cold, damp nose against Arthur's neck as a small broken sob bubbled up his throat.

"Mama's dead," he announced after a while. His dull voice, so different from the one Arthur was used to, pierced the teen's chest like a hot knife. "And Mattie's in the hospital."

Alfred raised his head, his impossibly blue eyes, streaked with red and wide in desperation, trapped Arthur's ones.

"…Why? They didn't deserve it, they were good, why…"

Another keening wail seeped through the child's lips. Arthur didn't have any answer for him. He just hugged him with more strength, too numb to find some more effective actions.

For the first time since Arthur had met him, Alfred didn't talk much. He spent the rest of the afternoon curled against his father or Arthur, his eyes glued to the television without seeing it. He did accept the food that was given to him but ate it as if he didn't even know what he was doing, his face expressionless and his eyes dull. That night, he slept in Arthur's bed, curled against his brother. He cried again before finally sliding into an exhausted sleep – small, soft sobs that pierced Arthur's heart more than a full-fledged scream could have.

It didn't feel like Alfred, it was like a shadow of the vital child he had always been. Arthur couldn't let it go on that way.

He mulled over the dilemma the entire night, unable to fall asleep with Alfred's cries still echoing in his ears, and in spite of that, he could find no solution, no way to console Alfred. But he _had_ to do something.

"Alfred, your mother loved you a lot," he started hesitantly as they were waiting for their parents at the gate of the airport, unable to stand the child's apathetic silence for another moment. "And… Since she loved you, she wouldn't want you to be sad. It… it must be really hard, but…"

Arthur's voice trailed off. He had never felt so pathetic and useless in his entire life.

To his surprise, Alfred turned his head, his eyes finally focusing on Arthur as he furrowed his brow.

"I know," he muttered, "Dad said this, too. That Mama is gone and it's going to hurt, but she loved me so very much…" The child shook his head. "But it's hard. I didn't even see her that much, but I'm already missing her so much…"

Alfred's voice was wavering. Arthur tightened the hold on his hand, waiting for him to start crying again, but Alfred didn't. He took a deep, shaky breath before going on.

"But your Dad died too, didn't he? How did you go on?"

Arthur found himself at loss, his chest tightening as he stared at Alfred's too expressive eyes.

"I… I don't really know," he was forced to admit, "I was so little… I don't even remember my father, so it's not like…"

For the first time in his life, Arthur found himself thinking of his older brothers with a pang of pain. Unlike him, they _had_ gone through something similar and turned out… not exactly good, but okay. Maybe, they would have known what to tell Alfred. Dylan, at least. But they weren't there, and Arthur would have to do.

Alfred nodded slowly before turning his head to stare at something that seemed to be far away.

"I'm glad that I got to know Mama, though," he declared in the end. "It hurts now, but I also have so many good memories… I should keep thinking about them. This is what Dad said. And I have to be strong for Mattie, too."

Arthur could only stare at Alfred as he shook his head, straightening his back. His eyes didn't look dull anymore, but bright with a steely resolution. A wave of dizziness washed over Arthur as he realized that Alfred didn't look like a child anymore.

He never strayed from his little brother and kept holding his hand for the entire duration of the trip, but he couldn't help but study the features of his face. His little brother was growing up.

Arthur didn't know how to feel about it – concern for what Alfred was going through, that was sure, surprise at the unexpected development, but there was also something akin to a spark of pride at the boy's unexpected maturity.

Alfred started getting restless again only once they approached the hospital, but this time for a different reason.

"Dad, dad, how's Mattie? He's going to be all right, isn't he?" he kept asking, concern showing through his features and widened eyes.

"Of course. There are good doctors, they're taking care of him," George would answer, but Arthur's stomach twisted as the man's hands clenched into too tight fists.

He tightened his hold on Alfred's hand, stroking his palm in what he hoped to be a comforting gesture.

When they finally got off the taxi and in front of the hospital, Arthur's stomach was completely closed off, he almost feared that he was going to throw up. With single-minded determination, they moved into the hospital in strides that got quicker and quicker until they were on the verge of running, a dizzying marathon to finally reach an answer.

The maddening march was stopped by a sudden cry.

"George! _Oh Dieu soit loué_ finally somebody is here I've been here since yesterday and I can't call Maman because her phone's out of reception and nobody will tell me anything _mon Dieu_ …"

Francis's lament trailed off in some unintelligible sobbed French words.

Arthur could only stare at him, his face slack with shock. Rationally, he knew that it was Francis, and a corner of his brain was dutifully reporting hearing Aila mention that Alfred and Matthew's cousin was in Canada while his parents had gone on a trip to Nepal, but that _couldn't be Francis._

Arthur had had the misfortune of meeting Francis before. His mother, Émilie's older sister, was still on friendly terms with George, and the previous summer she had decided to send her sixteen-year-old son to America for a couple of weeks to let him "have a taste of the world". Not murdering him had been a true exercise in constraint for Arthur, yet at that moment his chest was clenching at the wrongness of the situation.

The Francis Arthur knew was a self-conceited, vain snob who took care of his appearance as if he were a beauty peasant, with his lips constantly curled in a malicious smile and a flirtatious glint in his periwinkle blue eyes. The teen who was now sobbing in front of George, unable to put together a full sentence in English, looked as if he had been in an accident himself, with his long hair completely in disarray, his clothes crumpled, his eyes puffy and bloodshot on his sickly pale, tight features.

Alfred's hold on Arthur's hand tightened, suddenly reminding Arthur that there was something far more important he should be worrying about.

"Francis?" the child asked shakily, swallowing audibly.

The French teen blinked owlishly as his eyes focused on his young cousin. He sniffled loudly – and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he smiled weakly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Oh dear, I made quite a mess, didn't I? Forgive me, _mon chou_ , I hope I didn't scare you… you know, us Frenchmen are quite emotional, and I didn't get my beauty sleep last night… I'm sorry for making this scene. I… I'm sure that Matthieu is going to be fine, it's just hospital policy, you know? Since I'm not of age, they couldn't tell me anything, but now that your Dad is here it's going to be all right… Look, there's a nurse coming!"

Sure to be told, a middle-aged woman with a tired face but tender eyes was walking towards them.

"Mr Jones? Dr Karplus is ready to talk to you about your son. If you'd follow me…"

"Is Mattie okay?" Alfred asked immediately, taking a step towards the woman, his shoulders squared in spite of the slight tremble of his voice.

The nurse smiled at him.

"He's your little brother, isn't he? Mr Karplus is one of our best doctors, he's taking care of him."

Arthur's stomach clenched at the woman's vague words, and Alfred stiffened, but George squeezed his shoulder.

"I'm going to find out, I'll tell you everything as soon as I can. Now be good for Mom, alright?"

The smile didn't reach his eyes, but there was nothing to do about it. After a pat on Francis's shoulder, George departed behind the nurse, leaving his scared family members staring at his back, clustered together as if the mere vicinity could protect them from the situation. Alfred was squeezing Arthur's hand so tightly that the boy could hardly feel his fingers anymore, but no sound of complaint passed his lips. If cutting off his hand's circulation was going to provide Alfred with some comfort, Arthur was happy to comply.

Aila was the first one to recover, suggesting in a forcefully cheery voice to go and get something to eat from the cafeteria. Arthur wasn't hungry at all, his stomach seemed completely closed off, but it sounded reasonable. Besides, Alfred immediately nodded, even if he was still oddly silent.

The cafeteria was small, filled with too silent, ghostly people that made Arthur's skin crawl with uneasiness. They ordered ice-cream, but Alfred seemed to be the only one eating with almost manic precision, while everybody else just pushed their food around. It wasn't long before Francis excused himself with a fake, tight smile and almost ran away from the room, his shoulders shaking. Aila hesitated a moment before going after him with an apologetic glance to Arthur and Alfred.

Arthur's stomach twisted as he watched her leave, but he bit his lower lip and refrained himself from calling her back. Francis was in dire need of comfort, after all, and for how much Arthur didn't like him just thinking about spending an entire night alone, sitting on a plastic hospital chair as he waited for an answer that never came, made his chest clench. In spite of that, Francis had done his best to control himself in front of Alfred, and Arthur could at least appreciate that.

Glancing back to Alfred as he shook his head, Arthur found the child apparently completely engrossed in his meal, shoving spoonful after spoonful of ice-cream in his mouth with methodical accuracy. There was no tantrum, no tears, and at the same time the child's face was slack, there was a sort of rigidity in his motions that was utterly un-Alfred, and reached Arthur's chest like a stab.

Everything was falling apart.

Arthur wanted to console Alfred, but he didn't know how except for pathetically sliding an arm around his shoulders. His younger brother leaned against him wordlessly.

Not long after, Aila and Francis came back. The teen's eyes were suspiciously puffy, but his face had been washed from the tear-tracks and his hair tied back in a low pony-tail – sloppier that the ones Arthur had previously seen, but it was still in an improvement.

Francis and Aila tried a couple of times to start a conversation, but their efforts fell flat as neither Alfred nor Arthur had it in themselves to pay attention to their words, let alone answer. The time washed over them with unbearable slowness, expanding in the too silent, sterile room. Ushered conversations started and ended at the nearby tables as nurses and doctors sometimes passed by, their rushed steps merging in the background noise. Instead of being calming, the silence and sterile smell were pressing over Arthur's brain, closing off the walls of his throat. The only reason he didn't start screaming or burst into tears was Alfred's weight leaning against his side.

A corner of Arthur's brain recognized the irony of the situation, but the rest was too occupied with not thinking to acknowledge it.

After what seemed centuries, Alfred suddenly jerked to his feet with a cry. His flailing elbow knocked the spoon on the floor, but nobody cared as four pairs of eyes focused on George's quickly nearing form.

"Mattie's going to be all right," the man announced before anybody could ask the question, the words rushing out of his mouth. "He… The accident was pretty bad, but he's going to recover."

Arthur found himself slumping against the chair, the tension he hadn't been aware of until that moment washing away from his body. He could tell that there was something more serious, there was still some tension in George's stance, but he didn't think he was lying. While the boy itched to know the details about Matthew's condition, he knew that it probably wasn't a good idea in front of Alfred.

Francis muttered something in French, exhaling in a way that sounded suspiciously close to a broken sob.

"Dad, I want to see Mattie!" Alfred cried out, a hint of desperation in his voice as his fists grabbed his father's shirt.

George sighed before kneeling in front of the child, putting both hands on his shoulders.

"Now listen, Alfred: Mattie is going to be all right. I _promise_ you that he is. However, he needs a lot of rest. It's very important that he rests, this is why the doctors won't let anybody except for me see him. And he's sleeping right now, anyway. You wouldn't be able to talk to him."

"But I'll be good!" Alfred protested desperately, his clenched hands trembling. "I'll be silent and I won't wake him up, I promise!"

George sighed.

"Alfred, I'm sorry…"

While his eyes were kind, his voice left no doubt over the fact his words were definitive.

For a moment Alfred stared at him, frozen, then, to Arthur's horror, the child started to curl up on himself, his shoulders trembling as a broken sob erupted from his lips.

"Alfred!"

Everybody moved towards him, but Arthur was the first to reach his younger brother, enveloping him in a strong hug. The child curled up against his chest. When George tried to touch him, he turned his head and buried it against Arthur's shoulder.

"I want to see Matti," he wailed, hot tears soaking Arthur's shirt. "Mama is dead, how do I know that Mattie is truly all right?! I need to see him!"

There was no comforting answer Arthur could offer him, he just hugged tighter the trembling body. Some people had stopped what were they doing, raising their heads to stare at them. An elderly woman shook her head, Arthur didn't know if it was out of pity or annoyance, but he didn't care. He lowered his head and resolutely cut everything else off, focusing all his attention only on the small frame in his arms.

An exhausted sigh seeped through George's lips, but he didn't try to reach for Alfred anymore. Aila muttered something that Arthur didn't understand, and their steps moved away, leaving Alfred alone with Arthur and Francis. When the older teen's hand landed on Alfred's head, gently stroking his hair, the child didn't shy away from the touch.

"I know that this is hard, but Matthieu is strong," Francis murmured tenderly. "I want to be with him too, but right now… right now the best we can do is let the doctors do their job."

His features were so tight with grief that Arthur had to divert his eyes – but if Francis, in spite of having been close to Émilie, could manage to comfort Alfred, so could Arthur. He could try, at least.

"Do you hear this?" he murmured, pressing his lips close to Alfred's hair. "You're the Hero, aren't you? Sometimes heroes have to take very difficult decisions."

"I just want to be with Mattie…" Alfred sniffled, but at least he was listening.

Arthur tightened his hold on him.

"I know. But right now you can't. If you want to protect Matthew, you have to leave him to the doctors and listen to your father."

Alfred nodded slowly, but he never stopped crying. When Aila and George returned a moment later, however, he raised his head.

"I'm sorry," he sniffled, "I know I can't come, Dad. Please take care of Mattie. And tell him I love him so much."

George's hand descended to ruffle his hair.

"I certainly will, sweetheart. But you can tell him yourself – tomorrow morning. Tomorrow Mattie is going to be better, and you'll be allowed to see him. He might even wake up."

Alfred managed a small smile at that, but it was so different from his usual ones that Arthur's stomach clenched. Part of him wondered if he would ever see Alfred's bright smiles again, but the thought was so painful that he immediately banished it.

Aila reached out to take Alfred's hand, and the four of them left the hospital after George went away. Arthur would have wanted an update on Matthew's conditions as well, but he couldn't deny how much leaving the suffocating white corridors lifted a weight off his chest.

Alfred kept sniffling the entire time, and on the taxi, Aila took him on her knees and rambled over and over about how much she knew that it was difficult but Émilie had loved Alfred and she would have wanted him to be happy. She kept saying that Alfred wasn't alone, that they would be with him. Arthur was having troubles concentrating on her words, his brain seemed numb, everything muffled. The only thing he could concentrate on was Alfred's small hand, still clutching his. It was trembling slightly, so Arthur's hold had to be steady.

Aila's words seemed to calm Alfred down until they reached his mother's house – the place where they would spend the night. Staying there was the most logical choice, yet when Alfred's eyes filled with tears as he looked around the house, the realization that he truly wasn't going to see his mother again written in the silent, perfectly ordered rooms, Arthur wished that they could have rented a hotel room or an apartment somewhere else.

He expressed his concerns to his mother only to receive a tired shake of her head.

"I know that it might look like so… but it's actually very important for Alfred to realized that his mother is truly gone. It's— it's hard, I know. And I know that you're concerned for him and you're trying to protect him, but… not thinking about it isn't going to change what happened. I'm sorry…"

His stomach coiling with guilt, Arthur finally noticed the dark circles under his mother's eyes, her tight features. He could only imagine which memories the events were stirring in her mind, yet she was being strong, single-handedly supporting two traumatized children (Francis might have been older than Arthur, but after seeing his lost, tear-filled eyes the teen couldn't think him as anything else). Arthur could try to help, at least.

He hovered close to Alfred for the rest of the time, trying to distract the child with some chatting and useless words of comfort. He did manage to make Alfred smile a couple of times, but the timid curling of his lips never reached his eyes.

After a dinner consisting of pizza that only Alfred truly ate, they all went to bed early, unable to stand any longer the heavy silence that permeated the house, seeping into their brains. Like the previous night, Alfred and Arthur slept in the same bed, and the child cried himself to sleep in his brother's arms.

In the bathroom next door, the shower kept running for what seemed to be hours, unable to hide completely Francis's loud sobs in the silence of the night. Arthur couldn't sleep.

He was still wide awake when Francis came back (for once, Arthur hadn't complained about sharing the room with him. Even Francis was one more person keeping away the crippling solitude that seemed to be creeping over everybody), but too numb and dazed to pretend to be sleeping.

Francis offered him a small smile in the dimly-lit room.

"Is Alfred sleeping?" he asked, and at Arthur's nod, he sighed. "Your mother told me what happened to Matthew. He has a lot of bruising, obviously, he broke three ribs and basically shattered his collarbone – painful and it will be slow to heal, but that alone wouldn't be so serious. The problem is that one of the broken ribs punctured his spleen, so there was a lot of internal bleeding and they had to remove it. The spleen, I mean. And… your mother didn't tell me this, but I think… I think they weren't sure if he would survive, in the beginning. He's still in the ICU, this is why only George was allowed to see him, but they will move him out tomorrow if nothing takes a turn for the worse."

Arthur could do nothing but nod. He hadn't even allowed himself to be worried about Matthew, his mind completely wrapped around Alfred, but knowing what was going on lifted a small weight from his chest. His breath had been caught in horror when Francis had listed Matthew's injuries – they sounded horrible, especially for the frail body of a child of eight – but at least now he could know for sure that he was going to be all right.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Francis shook his head as he lay down on the mattress. There was a long moment of silence, Arthur had started thinking that the older teen was already asleep when he spoke again.

"They were going to a doctor visit. They were supposed to come back with lunch, I was waiting for them – and they never did. It was just – a moment. A drunk driver. And I was home, thinking that they had just been caught in the traffic…"

Francis's breath hitched. Arthur wanted to say something – anything, but his mouth seemed frozen, and the moment was already broken.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you this, I'm just being overdramatic because I'm tired." Francis's voice sounded stiff. "I'd better sleep I guess. Goodnight."

Without any other word, the teen turned on his side, giving his back to Arthur. No sound went past his lips, but Arthur could see his shoulders shaking in the moonlight. He clutched Alfred's sleeping form close to him, his stomach churning with dread.

Arthur didn't manage to get much sleep that night. When morning finally came, he was dazed and hollow, his mind could only concentrate on trying to provide to Alfred's need.

Francis seemed to have recovered, smiling affably as he tried to lighten the atmosphere conversing with Aila, but after the previous night, Arthur was sure that it was a farce. He found himself admiring the boy's acting abilities.

The breakfast and morning preparations went on in a rush, and soon they were back on a taxi, headed towards the hospital. Alfred kept bouncing his feet, his eyes bright with resolution at the thought of finally seeing his little brother. Recalling Francis's words, Arthur couldn't help but pray that Matthew was truly going to be all right – he wasn't sure that Alfred could have taken it, otherwise.

For once, fate seemed to have decided to give them a bit of respite.

"Matthew is awake," were the first words that seeped through George's lips as soon as he saw his family. He hugged Alfred and Arthur and gave a quick kiss to Aila's cheek. "He's still quite groggy and he doesn't know what happened, so you have to be careful, but…"

"So I can see him?!" Alfred interrupted him, almost vibrating on the spot, his eyes wide.

George nodded, his smile so wide that it almost seemed real – maybe it was, Arthur reasoned. Maybe the relief at seeing his younger son on the road to recovery could be enough to make him forget the rest for a while. There was still something Arthur didn't like in the way George had worded his answer, but he didn't have time to process it at the sheer mind-numbing relief that left his head spinning when George nodded.

While George and Aila stopped to talk with a doctor, Arthur, Francis and Alfred were finally led to Matthew's room by a middle-aged nurse with a tender smile.

"Now, Matthew is awake but he has been through a lot, all right?" she said as she stopped in front of the door. "So, you must not agitate him. He's hooked up to a lot of stuff – it might look scary, but he needs that to recover. And he is recovering, I promise."

The last words seemed to be directed at Alfred, who nodded solemnly.

"I won't get scared," he declared, looking at the nurse with unwavering eyes. "I just want to see Mattie."

He almost sounded like an adult, and the woman nodded, clearly convinced.

"All right then. But let me stress this one last time: he's still quite confused. So, don't ask him any questions or stress him in any way, try to keep him calm. I'll be right here if anything happens."

Arthur only vaguely registered her words, all he could think about as his stomach twisted and turned was what would lie behind the door that she was opening.

Alfred immediately ran into the room, followed shortly by Francis. Arthur hesitated, suddenly feeling like an intruder. He had never even seen Matthew before aside from some pictures.

When Arthur finally gathered enough courage to step into the room, Alfred had already climbed on the bed next to his younger brother, murmuring sweet words as he gently stroked his hair and face. Arthur had never seen him like that, looking so tender and mature. Francis had stopped next to the bed, giving his back to Arthur.

And then there was Matthew. The sight of the child made Arthur's chest clench. If he had looked small and slender in the pictures, now he was minuscule, drowned by the big bed. His skin was so pale that it almost looked translucent, barely darker than the white sheets around him, even his lips were devoid of any colour. The child's strawberry blond hair was spread over the pillow, framing his head in a shiny halo that reminded Arthur of a burial painting. The machinery connected to the child didn't certainly enforce an impression of vitality – small, twin tubes were attached to his nostrils, and IVs connected to bags with clear liquids were hooked to Matthew's thin wrists. The scene made Arthur's stomach coil – but Matthew was alive. His eyelids were fluttering, and the bloodless lips curled in a minute smile at Alfred's words.

Hesitantly, Arthur walked closer to Francis.

"See, Mattie, I'm here, everything is going to be all right," Alfred was rambling, "Just see, everything is going to be all right and I'm going to take care of you. You gave me such a scare, you know? But it's all right. It's going to be all right."

In spite of the slight tremble in his voice, his hands were steady, his eyes focused.

Matthew seemed to be gaining awareness by seconds, the pupils in his half-open eyes struggling to focus.

"Al…?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as a small crease appeared on his forehead. "Why…?"

"He came to see you, _mon lapin,_ " Francis supplied helpfully, taking the child's hand. "You got hurt. How are you feeling?"

The child blinked, his frown deepening.

"It hurts…" he mumbled, his words slightly less slurred than before. "What…"

He tossed his head from side to side, growing restless as awareness came back to him.

"Where's Mama?" he asked, a note of fear in his voice that made Arthur's chest clench.

Matthew's lilac eyes fell on Arthur. He stared at him for a moment, uncomprehendingly, as Arthur tried to force his lips into a comforting smile. The child's pupils widened in recognition. Arthur had a moment to recognize the panic in his eyes before Matthew burst into tears, a wail seeping through his lips.

Everything seemed to burst into motion at that – Alfred screamed as well, Francis called for the nurse who was already running into the room, but Arthur could only stare at Matthew's scrunched face, the tears streaming down his cheeks, he couldn't even breathe, the walls of his throat seemed to close off – and suddenly, hands were around his shoulders.

Arthur let himself be dragged away and out of the room, and before he could fully realize what had just happened he found himself sobbing against his mother's shoulder.

"It's okay. Shh, it's going to be all right. You were very good with Alfred until now, I'm sorry that I didn't have more time to look after you…" Aila was saying, rubbing circles on his back.

Arthur sobbed even louder. It wasn't all right. Everything was falling apart, and there wasn't a single thing he could do to make it better.

Sometime later, after any emotion had been drained away from Arthur along with the tears, leaving the boy staring numbly at the floor, Francis came looking for him.

"Matthieu isn't upset at you," were his first words, and the pity in his eyes was so visible that Arthur had to divert his gaze. "Actually, he's now feeling very sorry for causing that scene. It's just… Matthieu is a very bright child. Apparently, he has some memories of the accident, and he knew that Tante Émilie would never allow you here, so seeing you… it could only mean one thing. But… now he's very upset at upsetting you. He's a very sweet child, you know…"

Arthur did know that. Probably even more than Francis himself. Biting back the tears, he got up and followed the teen to Matthew's hospital room.

In spite of being barely awake, the child started apologizing and saying how delighted he was to meet Arthur, but Arthur couldn't go past the way he had cried, he could barely concentrate on what was going on. He didn't complain when they got kicked out of the room because Matthew needed to rest.

"It's not your fault," Alfred declared immediately, "Matthew has actually wanted to meet you for the longest time. He's just…"

The child shrugged. Seeing his little brother seemed to have given him strength, but he was still a child who had just lost his mother. Arthur squeezed his hand.

"I'm not upset," he lied, "I'm just sorry that all this needed to happen."

"Well, it did," Alfred murmured, sounding far older than he was. "And we gotta deal with it. And I'm going to take care of Mattie."

The resolution in his voice made something strange stir inside Arthur's chest.

 _And I'm going to take care of you while you do it._

He straightened up, gathering strength at the thought. He didn't know how Alfred managed to be so positive – but he was still going to need Arthur. And Arthur was going to be there for him, and Matthew as well, for how long it might take.

The following days, Arthur didn't see much of Matthew. The child spent most of the time sleeping, and when he didn't he was the real picture of politeness with Arthur – all smiles and nice words. But his eyes were empty, and his enthusiasm faked. He often just stared at the wall, looking lost somewhere far away.

Arthur knew that Matthew probably associated his presence with the trauma so he didn't want him there, which was normal, but the knowledge didn't stop the pain the pierced his chest. He thought that he had connected so much with Matthew over the letters… and now, the child was a closed box.

Luckily, Alfred seemed to be taking the recovery much better than Matthew. Or maybe it was Matthew's apathy that spurred Alfred – Arthur couldn't tell. The child had slowly gotten active again, and even if his eyes looked harder sometimes his smile looked genuine. He was still clingier than usual, but Arthur didn't mind. If he could do one single thing, he was happy to.

The day of Émilie's funeral came a week later. Francis's parents had finally been contacted and hurriedly left Nepal, and Matthew had been deemed well enough to get out of the hospital, even if he was still strongly debilitated.

The church was packed with people, mostly Émilie's friends and colleagues from work, then some other relatives from Europe. Francis was sitting between his parents, his head resting on his mother's shoulder, and George's figure on the first row attracted stares, but the heads quickly turned away at the sight of Matthew, still weak from the injuries and painkillers, balanced on his hip. Alfred was sitting next to him, with Arthur on his other side.

The boy had refused to leave his little brother's side and stay on a bench at the end of the church with his mother. He didn't care about how inappropriate it might be – George had to worry about Matthew, and Alfred needed his support. Nothing would change that, and when Alfred started sobbing against his shoulder while Marianne and after her other people talked on and on about what a wonderful and lively woman Émilie had been Arthur knew that he had made the right choice.

The eulogies sounded strange. They all mentioned how active Émilie had been, what a wonderful person she was, painting her as an angel, but nobody mentioned Matthew, or how Arthur knew she would live the child alone, almost to fend for himself. Nobody mentioned how she had saved his life, either, shielding him from the broken glass that had killed her. Arthur found himself wondering if the Émilie everybody talked about existed at all – but she had loved Matthew, for all her flaws.

After the funeral, they all moved to the courtyard for a lavish reception – the epitome of hypocrisy, if one had to ask Arthur, but Alfred shook his head.

"Mama would have wanted it like this," he declared with a small smile. "Mama would have wanted everybody to be happy."

The boy soon found himself under a gazebo with Francis, Alfred and Matthew, whom his father had had to finally put down to attend to his duty as a host. The child was leaning heavily against Alfred, his pain something beyond tears. Arthur knew that the adults were concerned because, while always polite and receptive to everybody's questions, the child didn't seem to be reacting, and after he had been taken off the IV he had never truly started eating unless he was forced to.

He seemed almost dead, the contrast with the vitality Arthur remembered from the letters made his stomach clench. So, he did the only thing he could do: he tried taking Matthew's mind off the present.

He had found _Bridge to Terabithia_ on the child's side-table when exploring his room, and it was oddly fitting. Matthew didn't react at first when Arthur started reading – but soon, a spark of interest seemed to light his eyes. Both him and Alfred shifted, bending closer to Arthur. The boy took note of it, but he never stopped reading.

He didn't stop when Francis came closer, or when with a knowing smile he sat next to Matthew and started feeding the child apple slices. Completely engrossed in the tale, Matthew automatically accepted the food and chewed on it without protesting.

Arthur kept reading even when his throat started hurting, barely stopping to take a sip of water, because something wonderful had happened: a small smile had curled Matthew's lips. Arthur couldn't have wanted anything better.

Aila and George found them still sitting there at the end of the reception, when Arthur's throat was so dry and scratchy that it almost felt on fire. As George took him in his arms, however, Matthew offered Arthur a small smile that did reach his eyes – sad instead of dull.

"Thank you," he murmured shyly, "That was beautiful."

And at that moment, as Alfred reached to take his hand, Arthur suddenly knew that he was going to do it. It was going to be hard – but Matthew was as much his little brother as Alfred was, and Arthur was going to take care of him.

 **(word count: 10,837)**

* * *

 **Notes : **

Émilie Williams in an OC (but she's very loosely based on Nyo!America). She's the daughter of a French Canadian and a British Canadian (hence her English surname) but she was raised in Quebec.  
Marianne Bonnefoy is Nyo!France and Émilie's older sister. She's 8 years older than her sister, she attended a boarding high school in France and built her life in France after that. She eventually met and married Francis's father (Pierre Bonnefoy, an OC).

Lithuania is called Tolys because Toris isn't a Lithuanian name, it was probably an incorrect transliteration from Katakana. It's not a big deal, but I prefer using this version.

The first book Arthur chose for Matthew is a real book. I remember that I liked it a lot when I was a child, it had this kind of melancholic atmosphere but the end was very sweet… I can't remember the name or the author, however, and right now I'm not home (I haven't been in almost 4 months) so I couldn't look for it. (Nor could I ask my mother or sister… Not without revealing her that I'm writing embarrassing fanfictions, which I will bring to my grave.)

English isn't my first language, I apologize for the mistakes. Feel free to let me know if you spotted anything!

I'm really not satisfied with the way I dealt with this situation, but I guess I'm never going to be. Next chapter will be somewhat lighter, I hope it won't take me so long to write it. Please consider leaving a review, if you liked it or have anything to say! I've already said how important they are…


	4. Matthew, Part 2

**Notes :** Hello… uhm, this shouldn't have taken so long, but it was somehow really hard to write. I have to thank the people who favorited/followed this story, and in particular Related To Moon for the comment on the last chapter, which meant the world to me.

I also owe an apology for disappointing people with the last chapter, I understand that it was quite a tone shift from the previous ones. Mind you, the story was always supposed to go this way, however, I hadn't truly considered what it meant and I understand that from the summary and my other notes there was nothing that indicated the fact that the tone was going to get darker. I'm sorry about this, I'll try to be more considerate next time.

Now, without further delay, let's move to the chapter.

* * *

 **Matthew, Part 2**

The weeks after getting back to Canada weren't easy – they were probably the hardest period of Arthur's life. There must have been other times like that after his natural father's death, but Arthur had only vague recollections of one of his brothers dragging him away while their mother burst into tears, and he had been too young to fully understand what was happening.

Now he did, and knowing that he could do nearly nothing was tearing him apart.

Alfred seemed to be recovering quickly – the smile had returned to his lips along with the sparkle in his eyes, but his nights were plagued by nightmares that could be calmed down only if he was held by somebody. Usually, that task fell on Arthur, who didn't mind. The bruises blossoming on his skin as a result of Alfred's kicking didn't matter if he could do something to help.

At the same time, Alfred had gotten incredibly clingy – he always had to be around at least one family members, and Arthur caught him checking manically the clock around the time George and Aila were supposed to come home, growing restless with every minute of eventual delay. The only way to keep him calm was to distract him with stories – or to have him spend some time around Matthew, but Arthur wasn't sure that it was a healthy coping mechanism.

Matthew was recovering as well, but at a significantly slower pace that wasn't helped by his injuries. The child had spent the first week on bedrest, still dazed from the painkillers. He looked often uncomfortable, fidgeting as if he wanted to be anywhere but there, but he hardly ever cried. The last time Arthur had seen him cry had been after Francis had left. Matthew had declared to be tired and asked to be carried to bed, where Arthur had found him later curled under the blankets, with tears sliding down his cheeks and his face contorted in agony because the muffled sobs were disturbing his still healing ribs.

Aside from that occasion, however, Matthew hardly ever voiced his distress, be it physical pain or any other kind of emotional turmoil. The child spoke when he was spoken to, his voice soft and gentle, but the grief written in his pale features and in his lost, haunting lilac eyes made Arthur's skin crawl with uneasiness. He didn't know how to deal with that, how to help. He was used to Alfred's loud tantrums and tears, but that resigned silence left him completely helpless. The only thing he could do was to read, hoping to divert Matthew's mind from his loss.

Strangely, it seemed to work. Matthew's growing alertness was followed by timid questions – _did Arthur like the book? Who was his favourite character? Matthew could see that there was an easier way to solve the main issue, how could the characters not realize that?_ – He would even smile, sometimes. His smiles were different from Alfred's, too – softer, shyer – but Arthur realized after a while that Matthew didn't seem to mind his presence.

It was after one reading session, after both Matthew and Alfred had fallen asleep, that Arthur got up from the bed to find his mother standing at the doorway, her lips curved into a tender smile.

"You've really grown up, haven't you?" she murmured in answer to his questioning stare. "I know that it must be hard for you, to see Alfred and even Matthew suffer this way. But you've been wonderful with them… I don't know if you are aware of this, but you're helping immensely. I'm so proud of you, Arthur."

The spark of warmth that surged in Arthur's chest at those words, accompanied by a mind-numbing relief, almost brought tears to his eyes. He had been feeling so useless… yet, his mother's soft features and warm eyes spoke nothing but the truth. Arthur could only nod stiffly, his throat blocked by a lump that wasn't completely unpleasant.

"You're doing good," his mother repeated soothingly, "And it's going to get better, I promise."

Arthur couldn't see how – but gradually, it _did_ get better. Both Alfred and Matthew attended some sessions with a psychologist, and they seemed to improve – Alfred was getting less nervous, Matthew more present. He had even started referring to Aila with her first name instead of _"Mrs Aila"_ as he had at the beginning. That was odd, in Arthur's mind. Given Émilie's clear dislike for George's second wife, Arthur would have expected Matthew to carry at least some resentment against her, but the child didn't seem to show any negative feeling.

He was always polite, his lips curled in a small, apologetic smile, and Arthur was starting to realize that what he had taken for indifference against him had been more an answer to both the pain and the painkillers. As the physical recovery went on, Matthew became more active and receptive.

It wasn't always easy – for how much he tried to keep it out of everybody's attention, Matthew had been badly injured in the car accident, and the road to recovery was long. Moving too quickly or in the wrong way seemed to cause him immense pain, especially once the painkillers' dose was decreased. Seeing the child with his face contorted in agony, unable to cry because it would be too painful, would be forever etched in Arthur's nightmares, and it probably wasn't much different for Alfred.

With time, however, Matthew started behaving like any normal child his age – he wasn't as lively as Alfred, but he would play with him, more action figures than video-games because his left arm was still immobilized by the sling, they watched movies, whispered conversations while they were supposed to be sleeping. Sometimes, however, Arthur would catch him staring at the void, or subtly rubbing his eyes without being completely able to hide their redness – but he was adjusting. Everybody was.

It was only later that Arthur started becoming conscious of another issue, one that made taking care of Matthew at the same time easy and an incredibly hard task: Matthew was the picture of discretion. In complete contrast with Alfred, the child never drew attention on himself, he was just... There. Which was good, Arthur supposed, in this way, Matthew's presence hadn't disrupted too much the balance of the family, and yet... Sometimes, Arthur found himself thinking about the letters. They seemed to belong to a lifetime before, however, they had been written by the same Matthew. Who _did_ have needs and wishes, he merely didn't express them – but then, how were they supposed to know when he needed something?

Alfred claimed to know because it was his duty as an older brother, but Arthur doubted his words. Alfred surely meant well, yet too many times he ignored Matthew's haunted eyes and contented himself with a fake smile. George didn't fare much better – it almost looked like he didn't know how to approach Matthew as well. Sometimes, he seemed to notice when there was something wrong, but he would simply hover over the child, hesitating as if about to say something – then he would bite his lower lip and keep silent. Other times, he simply didn't notice. Arthur slowly came to the realization that George didn't know his younger son at all… he almost seemed to think that he would react just like Alfred, and the fact he didn't left him baffled. It made perfect sense, considering how Matthew had grown up away from George, but it still left an unpleasant weight at the bottom of Arthur's stomach.

Despite his efforts to pay attention to the child, however, Arthur was quickly claimed by more pressing matters: with the beginning of September came his first year of high school, and the boy found himself focused completely on that. High school was different from middle school, not only harder – but Arthur didn't mind that, he was always up for a challenge – people were different. The competitivity could be tasted in every molecule of air. Everybody suddenly needed to be stronger, more popular, to catch up with girls, and people who didn't do that were left to eat dirt. It certainly wasn't a thriving environment for Arthur, but his skin had been hardened by his older brothers, and his tongue was sharp. He and Lovino were some kind of outcasts, but people didn't mess with them (which might have had more to do with the fact that Massimo Vargas has become quite a renowned man over the years, for how much Arthur liked to attribute it to his scathing remarks) and after a couple of weeks a Romanian boy named Vlad joined their circle.

All in all, Arthur couldn't complain about the direction his life had taken, but he was certainly busy. He hadn't forgotten about the trauma Alfred had gone through, however, and tried to pay attention to him as much as he could, at least by staying in the same room if he didn't have time to spare. At the same time, paying attention to Alfred was easy: the boy _demanded_ it. He was so loud that forgetting about him was short of impossible, and always tried to engage with Arthur, be it help with his homework or playing together.

And where Alfred went, Matthew followed like a shy, silent shadow. Arthur would still read to him from time to time and recommend other books to read, but he didn't interact with him as much as he had promised himself to do. It wasn't a conscious decision – Matthew was constantly obscured by Alfred's exuberance, and his silent and apologetic demeanour didn't help. Sometimes, Arthur found himself wondering if Matthew was so unassuming because of his personality or because he didn't want to disturb the balance of his new family situation, but his mind never stayed on the issue long enough to truly ponder it.

The day Arthur had the first hint that there was something truly wrong was what would be later dubbed as _'The Pancakes Accident'_.

The morning has started like any other Sunday morning, with everybody taking it easy and lingering in bed. Arthur was engrossed in a book Vlad had lent him, his mind completely focused on the story while his sensorial perception basked in the pleasant warmth and softness of the blankets around him. Enveloped in the calm of the early morning, he was barely aware of the real world.

The silence was suddenly shattered by a shrill scream.

Arthur started, the book falling out of his hands, and he was on his feet and running out of his room before he could even properly realize what was happening – because his brain had immediately recognized whom the voice belonged to: Aila Kirkland, one of the most collected people Arthur knew. That was all the information he needed to make his legs automatically move as fast as they could, jumping two steps at once until the boy found himself at the kitchen's door, panting, with his heart thundering in his chest.

Arthur wasn't the only one who had come to Aila's help – behind him, Alfred's shout of "Mom, what's wrong?!" and the hurried, heavy thumps of George's feet on the wooden stairs announced the arrival of his other family members.

The situation, however, didn't look anything like the attempted murder or any other catastrophic scenario Arthur's mind had conjured. On the contrary, everything looked completely calm. The kitchen was spotless save a bowl next to the sink, and Matthew was standing in front of the oven, his features waxen and his widened eyes focused on Aila. The woman was facing him, giving her shoulders to Arthur.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking a deep breath as she ran a hand through her hair. "It wasn't my intention to scare anybody. I was startled, I wasn't expecting anybody in the kitchen. Just… what do you think you're doing, Matthew?"

The rising anger hidden behind the forcefully calm voice wasn't lost to Arthur. Matthew caught it as well. His lips quivering, the child looked down at his feet.

"I… I'm sorry…" he muttered in such a low whisper that Arthur barely heard it. "I didn't mean to do anything wrong…"

Only when Matthew raised his trembling hand Arthur noticed the spatula in his clenched fist, and immediately after the pan on the burner.

"What happened?" echoed George, sliding into the kitchen next to Arthur.

Matthew immediately turned to him, desperation bright in his eyes.

"I'm sorry…" he repeated in a shaky voice, "I just… I was awake and everybody was still sleeping, so I just… came down to make breakfast. I wasn't going to eat too many pancakes, I swear! And I was going to leave something for everybody else…"

Matthew's voice trailed off as his eyes darted from Aila and George, imploring.

"Mattie…" George started, raising his hands, but Aila interrupted him sharply.

"Matthew, this isn't how it works! You're eight. You're not allowed inside the kitchen alone! If you want anything to eat, you ask me or your father. You should ask for permission even for a snack – let alone if you want to cook! Thank goodness you're not hurt, but you're too young to play with the stoves… How did it even cross your mind to do that?!"

Aila's anger was understandable. Arthur's mind immediately flashed back to a hazy memory of when he was four, and the kitchen had been almost burnt down thanks to his brothers' combined efforts to bake a cake. In spite of that, Arthur didn't miss the flash of hurt surprise in Matthew's eyes.

The child seemed to fold over, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his feet.

"But…" he answered in a soft, trembling whisper, "But Mama always let me cook… I… I've never given any troubles, I promise, she said she trusted me because she had to wake up earlier and couldn't cook my breakfast herself…"

The silence that fell after his words was broken only when Alfred slid into the kitchen and in front of his brother.

"So Mattie can cook, uh? That's so cool, Mattie! I guess Mom was just surprised because me and Arthur can't cook at all, isn't it right?"

The beaming smile Alfred flashed Aila did nothing to quell the uneasiness in Arthur's stomach, but Matthew timidly raised his head. Arthur's chest clenched at the unmistakable watery glint in the child's eyes.

"Oh, okay, it was only a misunderstanding, then," George said with fake cheerfulness. "Sorry, Mattie. We'll be glad to taste your pancakes, and sorry for the scolding… We are just not used to it, but it's our fault for not making this clear. You're not in trouble, alright?"

The man squeezed his wife's shoulder, who took a deep breath.

"Of course you're not. Sorry, Matthew, I didn't know you were allowed to cook for yourself. It's okay for this time, but don't do it again."

While George tensed slightly, he didn't add anything else, and Matthew gave a small nod.

"Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry anybody. I won't do it again."

The child's voice was as soft and polite as ever, but Arthur couldn't ignore how his eyes looked dull, something in his features had shifted to a guarded impenetrability that Arthur couldn't decipher.

Since they were all already downstairs, they settled for breakfast, pretending that nothing had happened. Matthew's pancakes were the best ones Arthur had ever tasted, they almost seemed to melt inside his mouth, a far cry from the gummy monstrosities his mother had tried to pass as 'pancakes' for many years or George's blandly-tasting ones. Even Aila, mostly calmed down by then, had to praise them. That wasn't enough to change her mind on the fact that Matthew wasn't allowed to cook anymore.

Once again, the child didn't complain, he merely nodded politely as he apologized and assured that it wasn't going to happen another time. His eyes, however, accurately avoided to cross Aila's ones, and there was a rigidness to his posture, a formal cordiality to his voice that made Arthur's stomach coil unpleasantly. Part of him impulsively wanted to intercede for Matthew so he could keep cooking since it seemed to matter so much for him, but a more rational part of his brain was stuck contemplating the ridiculousness of the situation. Matthew was _eight years old_. it was far too young to be cooking alone – far too young to take care of himself on his own. The fact that the child had been clearly forced to do so – to the point of being so used to it that _taking that autonomy away from him was making him uneasy_ – suddenly turned everything in Arthur's mouth to a bitter taste.

The fact that neither George nor Aila had known what to do or even suspected anything didn't help, and Matthew's unwillingness to express his needs intensified the issue tenfold. Arthur would have wanted to say something, but he found his brain empty of words, and the moment was lost as everybody rose from the table.

Looking at Matthew's guarded features and empty eyes as he obediently followed Alfred out of the kitchen, Arthur clenched his fists and swore to himself that he was going to pay more attention to him.

It didn't take him more than a couple of days to realize how difficult his self-appointed task was. Arthur just had… too much to balance. There was school, and there was Alfred, who loudly announced his presence. Besides, while Alfred was an open book, each of his emotions written in his features and expressive eyes, easy to react to, Matthew's politeness was impenetrable, Arthur didn't know how to approach him. It was a bitter day when he realized that he had learnt more about Matthew through their sporadic letters than since he had come to live in America.

At the same time, Arthur wasn't completely ignoring Matthew. They just connected in a different way, through shared books and shy smiles. And maybe, that was enough. Maybe, Matthew just needed more time to adjust, and Arthur gradually managed to convince himself that they were doing all they could for him.

Until the day came when the boy was forced to face the realization that nothing any of them was doing was even remotely close to enough for Matthew.

It started with a rain that came suddenly, taking everybody out of surprise. One moment, the blue of the sky had only been slightly covered by some white puffs, the next, a strong wind had gathered grey, thundering clouds. Arthur had just made it home when a steady barrage of rain started, thundering against the roof. Glad to have avoided the storm, the teen took refuge in his room and immediately started his homework, his concentration sharpened by the comforting sound of the raindrops hitting his windows. It was his favourite environment, and Arthur didn't stop even when the door slammed open, followed by Alfred's chattering and George's rushed steps.

Part of him knew that he should have probably gotten down and taken Alfred's attention away from his father, since George had an important meeting the following day and Aila, visiting an aunt in England, couldn't help them, but he didn't want to let the moment of productivity go wasted and swallowed down the guilt.

Almost an hour later, once he was done with his homework, Arthur got downstairs to make himself a cup of tea and took the opportunity to peek into the living room and check on Alfred, but the child's attention was focused on the TV. Arthur's presence wasn't needed. Shrugging, the teen headed towards the kitchen. While he loved Alfred, he certainly wasn't going to mind some moments of calm, he had just had a big test in the morning and now he wanted to relax for a bit… a hot tea, a book and the stormy weather seemed perfect for that.

Tendrils of uneasiness still lingered over Arthur as he took the kettle to heat the water, but the teen resolutely swallowed it down: he had worked hard, and he deserved a bit of rest. Especially if neither Alfred nor George needed him. For how much he told himself so, however, Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that there was something amiss, almost as if he had forgotten something. But there wasn't…

The unexpected ringing of the bell tore him out of his thought with a gasp. In his surprise, Arthur spilt down some water, narrowly avoiding his feet.

"Alfred, wait!" he called after the quick footsteps that preceded him to the door. "Don't open until I'm here!"

Arthur was sure that they weren't expecting anybody. Besides, who would even decide to go out in that weather?

Frowning, Arthur hurried after Alfred to find the boy in front of the door, fidgeting on his feet.

"I can't see anything," he reported, turning towards Arthur as he shifted nervously to a side to let him check.

True to Alfred's words, no shape could be seen behind the opaque glass that covered the upper half of the door. An icy hand gripped Arthur's chest. Whoever had rung the bell had positioned himself to a side so he wouldn't be seen… it certainly didn't look like anything good.

"Stay behind me," Arthur ordered, forcing himself to keep his voice even.

Alfred didn't need to be told twice. He moved away from the door, his eyes unnaturally wide.

"Is it… is it a ghost?" he asked shakily, biting his lower lip.

"No, don't be ridiculous," Arthur answered automatically, "Ghosts don't exist."

He would have personally preferred ghosts to anything hiding behind that door, anyway. Arthur's hyperactive mind was already jumping to the worst-case scenarios, towards serial killers and children traffickers…

But George's heavy footsteps thumped against the stairs at the end of the corridor, followed by the man's voice.

"Who's there, kids?"

It was in that moment that all the pieces fell into place, and Arthur suddenly understood with gut-wrenching clarity what had been missing.

With a strangled gasp, the boy tore open the door, his heart thundering in his chest. His eyes immediately fell on the worst sight Arthur could have ever imagined.

The small boy was standing in front of the door, his drenched hair and the coat plastered to his violently quaking frame made him look even more minute. In contrast with the wan face, the lilac eyes fixed on the door looked unnaturally vivid, the intensity of their gaze left Arthur completely paralyzed as all the air left his lungs.

 _That_ was what had been missing. Matthew. His youngest brother.

 _How can I have forgotten this, even for a moment?_

Finally, Alfred's alarmed cry of _"Mattie!"_ tore Arthur out of his trance.

There would be time for questions and guilt trips – but _later_. One single glance at Matthew's quivering form told him that there was something far more important to worry about.

Resolutely turning a blind eye to the guilt that was crawling up his stomach and the panic threatening to close off his throat, Arthur grabbed Matthew's left arms and dragged him inside, starting to peel off his coat even before Alfred slammed the door closed with a kick.

"Oh, no!" the child gasped at the same time, his voice trembling. "Dad, we forgot Matthew!"

Hearing those words so clearly made Arthur's skin crawl, and at the same time, George's footsteps halted for a moment then started heavier than before with a loud imprecation. Arthur agreed with the sentiment, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and think above the panic that was worming its way into his brain.

Matthew had yet to utter a single sound. His entire body was shaking, his teeth were chattering, and the drops glistening against his waxen cheeks weren't only rain. When Arthur's hand came into contact with his wet, icy skin, the boy could've cried – but he didn't have time for that.

 _'I need to think rationally,'_ Arthur reminded himself, gritting his teeth. ' _We need to warm him up now.'_

"Oh, Mattie, I'm so, so sorry, I…" Alfred had started babbling, his eyes wide with worry as he fretted over his younger brother – but his hands were shaking, and he was too jittery to truly help.

"Go and fill the bathtub with warm water," Arthur ordered him, "I want it ready for when I've finished undressing him."

His voice sounded much more confident than Arthur felt, and Alfred dashed away without any further question. A moment later, George reached them, kneeling in front of Matthew to help Arthur get rid of the wet clothes.

"Oh Jesus, Matthew…" he immediately started saying, "Oh God I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to forget you, baby… Oh God… I— I was such in a hurry and…"

"It's okay," Matthew forced out through his chattering teeth, his eyes finally focusing on his father. "I… My class was late be—because Mrs Enders hadn't heard the bell s—so I wasn't out when you came for Alfred a—and I'm sorry, I…"

"But _why_ did your teacher let you go if nobody was coming for you?" George asked as he yanked off Matthew's sweater, desperation seeping through his voice.

Matthew shrugged, obediently stepping out of his pants to let Arthur help him.

"It's not her fault," he answered immediately, stumbling over the words. "I just… I told her that I was going to take the bus, but I didn't have money for the ticket so… I'm s—sorry! I just thought I could walk home, I know the way, I th—though you were already gone because you had work to do but then it started raining and I… I…"

With gut-wrenching horror, Arthur realized that tears were shining at the corners of Matthew's eyes.

 _How_ could they have forgotten about him?!

The wave of guilt that washed over Arthur left the breath blocked in his throat and his hands paralysed for a moment. His work, however, was mostly done.

"Oh, no, Matthew," George declared resolutely, finally managing to take control of himself. "Nothing of this it's your fault. It should have never happened – and I'm so, so sorry, baby. You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, _I_ am the one who has to apologize. And I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I promise that this isn't going to happen again. Now we'll get you warmed up, all right?"

Matthew nodded hesitantly, sniffling. His huge, lost eyes pierced Arthur's chest like a knife.

Without wasting another moment, George yanked off the last article of clothing and wrapped Matthew's naked, trembling form in his sweater before picking him up.

"Arthur, can you make a tea, please?" he asked as he started walking to the bathroom, "Not tea-tea, an infusion, maybe. Chamomile. Or ginger. Look at what we have, then bring it up."

The man took off without waiting for an answer, and Arthur hurriedly disappeared into the kitchen. The water was still warm enough, but Arthur's hands were trembling so much that he almost spilt everything out of the mug.

 _'It's not my fault,'_ Arthur tried to reason desperately, _'I wasn't even there, I couldn't even know that Matthew wasn't home.'_

 _'But you didn't even think about Matthew at all,'_ another voice whispered inside his head. _'Maybe you're not directly responsible for this, but you still didn't notice that he wasn't home. You didn't pay any attention. You're as much to blame as anybody else.'_

Arthur gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the way his stomach was churning with guilt. He _knew_ that he was to blame as well – but at that moment, it was useless. Swallowing, Arthur turned back to the chamomile and added a big helping of maple syrup – he knew that Matthew liked it. It was the least he could do.

With his task accomplished, Arthur dashed to the bathroom, not breaking into a run just to avoid spilling the warm beverage.

As soon as he opened the door, the boy was invested by a wave of hot steam, and his ears invaded by Alfred's anxious voice.

"Are you getting warmer, Mattie? Are you? Oh gosh, I'm so, so sorry, I promise that I would never forget you for real, I'm just not used to you living with us and…"

"Ah, Arthur, you're already done!" George said as he noticed Arthur, interrupting Alfred's endless chatter. "Thank you. I think I'll keep Matthew in the water for another bit, will it stay warm until then?"

"Sure…" Arthur muttered, suddenly realizing that taking the mug to the bathroom probably wasn't the most useful idea – but he couldn't bring himself to move away, his eyes immediately darting to the bathtub.

Matthew wasn't shaking anymore, and his skin had taken a rosy hue thanks to the warm water. His eyes were still suspiciously bright, but he wasn't crying, on the contrary, his lips were curved into a faint, apologetic smile.

"I'm fine," he murmured as Arthur's eyes met his ones. "Thank you."

"You'll be fine once you're dried up," sighed George, "Now hold still, I'm going to wash your hair."

Alfred immediately handed him a bottle of shampoo, eager to help. He didn't seem as scared as he had been some minutes earlier, but he kept fidgeting on his feet, and his eyes never strayed from his younger brother.

It wasn't long before Matthew was settled, his tiny form almost swallowed by the towels as George carefully dried his hair. Only his small hands emerged from the towels, clutching the mug like a lifeline. They weren't trembling anymore, but that was only a small consolation for Arthur. Matthew's resigned, sad eyes had been imprinted in his brain, the mere thought was enough to make the bile rise to the back of his throat. Anger was something he could have dealt with, but that quiet acceptance left him feeling more and more guilty.

As soon as Matthew was properly dried up, George dressed him in his warmest pyjama and settled him on his own bed, wrapped in a fleece blanket. Being allowed to watch TV on Aila and George's bed wasn't an ordinary occurrence, which was enough to ignite a spark of excitement in Alfred, who all but threw himself at the mattress.

" _Captain_ _America_! Let's watch _Captain America_!" he started yelling immediately, but probably for the first time in his life, George cut him off.

"Do _you_ want to watch _Captain America_ , Mattie?"

The child's eyes widened in surprise at the question, making a weight drop in Arthur's stomach. Had anybody ever asked Matthew what he wanted to do, instead of immediately following Alfred's more vocal requests? …Surely, there _had_ to be at least one instance, but no matter how hard he tried Arthur couldn't recall it.

The way Matthew hesitated before answering wasn't a positive note, either.

"I… Can we watch _How to Train Your Dragon,_ please?"

Alfred immediately pouted.

"But Mattie! _Captain America_ is way cooler, and…" his voice trailed off as his eyes stopped on Matthew's face. Arthur could almost see him remember the way it had been less than an hour earlier, waxen and drenched.

"Of course, _How to Train Your Dragon_ is fine too," he finished quietly, sliding closer to his brother before George could reprimand him.

"Well then, _How to Train Your Dragon_ it is," the man commented with forced cheerfulness.

Matthew's soft, genuine smile shouldn't have been so painful to look at. Swallowing, Arthur diverted his eyes, and in his attempt to shake off the guilt that was clawing at his insides he suddenly remembered that George probably still had to finish preparing for the interview.

"I'll stay here," he offered, sitting on the bed at Matthew's other side. "I'll call you if there's anything wrong."

The grateful smile that George flashed him did nothing but increase his uneasiness. There was nothing he should be praised for – if only Arthur had been more attentive, the situation wouldn't have existed at all.

At the same time, a rational part of Arthur mind realized that he shouldn't burden his little brothers with his foul mood, so he relaxed against the bed and pretended to enjoy the movie. It wasn't hard, it was actually a good movie and Alfred and Matthew were engrossed in it, giggling at the funnier parts, with Alfred reacting animatedly to any event, in spite of already knowing the story. Seeing Alfred and Matthew like that, almost cuddling in the middle of the big bed, made the tensions slowly wash away from Arthur's body.

 _We made a mistake, but it's all right now. We just need to own up to it._

The illusion was shattered at dinnertime when Matthew kept playing with the spoon and the soup instead of eating.

"Are you feeling sick?" George asked immediately, frowning.

"No, but I'm not hungry," Matthew muttered with an apologetic half-smile. "Sorry. Can I just go to bed?"

"Alright. But you need to stay awake until I give you your antibiotics at least, you know this."

In spite of the gentleness in George's voice, the creases never left his forehead, and the tightness around his eyes made Arthur's stomach churn. The boy put down his own spoon, suddenly not hungry anymore.

"Is Mattie going to get sick?" Alfred asked, his eyes wide with concern.

"No, of course not," George answered automatically, "He has to take some medicine every day just to avoid this. It's going to be all right."

But his smile never reached his eyes, and later Arthur caught him staring at the bottle of syrup which such intensity that he seemed to want to melt it. Or desperately hoping for answers. Arthur didn't know what would have been better.

"Don't worry, it's going to be fine," declared George, realizing that Arthur was staring at him. "I just… I think that I'm going to give him a full dose this evening and tomorrow morning, just to stay on the safe side. It's going to be all right."

Except it wasn't.

After going to bed, Arthur found himself unable to fall asleep, too preoccupied with straining his ears to monitor the coughing fits that got harsher and more frequent in his brothers' bedroom. Only hours later the boy managed to slide into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

The following morning started with a shrill shout.

"Dad, dad! Come here, quick! Mattie's real sick!"

For how much Arthur was hoping that, for once Alfred wasn't exaggerating. By the time he got to his brothers' room, Matthew was hunched over the bowl George had wisely left next to his bed, retching violently and coughing as tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. Arthur's stomach turned at the sight, and Alfred didn't seem to be faring much better, jumping up and down next to his brother without knowing how to help.

George took control of the situation as soon as he dashed into the room, with his pyjama pants still under a freshly-pressed shirt.

"Alfred, go get ready for school," he ordered as he sat next to Matthew, rubbing the child's back. "I'll take care of Mattie."

That was something Arthur could help with, since George was busy with Matthew. He took Alfred's hand and dragged him downstairs, away from his brother.

"Is Mattie gonna be all right?" Alfred asked as Arthur poured him a bowl of milk and cereals, a deep concern evident in his voice and wide eyes. "Everybody said that we had to be extra careful that he didn't get sick, now that he's without a spleen."

"No, he just risks getting sick more easily, that's the problem," Arthur lied evenly, trying to ignore the way his stomach was unpleasantly coiled. "But once he gets sick there's nothing different, he's just going to heal as usual."

Alfred nodded before digging into his breakfast, but the creases on his forehead hadn't completely smoothened down. Arthur didn't feel any more confident than he was.

 _Isn't one supposed to not get sick at all, if he's taking antibiotics?_

And it wasn't the only problem: as George rushed downstairs to get Matthew's antibiotics, with the thermometer in one hand and the phone clutched in the other, Arthur was suddenly reminded of the important conference he was supposed to attend.

And Aila wasn't at home.

"What are you going to do with the meeting?" Arthur managed to ask a bit later, hovering at the doorway as George spread another blanket over Matthew's frame.

George hesitated a moment, biting his lower lip.

"I… damn. I can't just miss it. But there's no way I can go, I can't leave Mattie alone. Is there…"

There was nobody they could call, both Arthur and George knew that.

"I'll stay home."

Arthur's impulsive statement surprised the boy himself, but the more he thought about it the surer he was. He had played a heavy hand in Matthew's getting sick, after all, and trying to amend to that was the least he could do.

George froze for a moment, leaving him a chance to explain.

"I… I mean, I don't have anything important at school today. Half of my grade is at an athletic competition, so they won't make us do anything too important… and I can take the notes from Vlad or Lovino. I've never missed a day of school before, anyway. It won't be a problem."

"Your mother is going to kill me," George muttered, shaking his head, but they both knew that it was the best option.

A few minutes later, Arthur was in front of the medicine cabinet with George.

"Matthew is asleep now, so just let him rest. But wake him up in a couple of hours to have him drink something, or he could get dehydrated. His fever was 102.02."

Arthur had to take a moment for the mental conversion in Celsius and paled when he realized how bad Matthew's fever already was, but George didn't stop talking.

"…I already gave him some Tylenol and the antibiotic… I hope he can keep them down. Check his fever from time to time. You can give him some more Tylenol in six hours… I'd say to give him some if the fever is above 100.4 or if he's complaining that he isn't feeling well. Just fill the measuring cup until the red line, okay? Mattie's good, he'll drink it without complaining. Try to make him eat something light for lunch, there are some soup leftovers from yesterday, but don't force him to eat if he doesn't want to. Give him some fruit juice – it should be easier to keep down, and at least there's some sugar."

Arthur kept nodding mechanically, trying to store all the information. George made it sound easy, but it was the first time Arthur would take care of somebody on his own, and uneasiness was making his stomach churn. What if he did something wrong?

George stopped talking for a moment to offer Arthur a reassuring smile.

"You'll do fine, Arthur. And if there's anything wrong, I'm keeping my phone on, you can call me anytime – I'm sure everybody will understand. I'll be back with Alfred after school. And… thank you, Arthur. I don't know what I would do without you."

The praise only stirred another wave of guilt. Arthur didn't deserve that, there would be no need for him to stay home if only he had properly paid attention to Matthew like he had promised he would do. At the same time, wallowing in the guilt wasn't going to help anybody.

Sighing, Arthur took place on a chair next to Matthew's bed. His eyes studied the sleeping form as the door closed downstairs, leaving the two of them alone. Matthew's cheeks were flushed, but his lips waxen, and his features were tightened with discomfort as he seemed to struggle slightly with his breathing.

Hesitantly, Arthur reached out to pet the child's hair, like he remembered his mother doing when he had been sick. Matthew immediately leaned into his touch, relaxing slightly.

Seeing the child looking so vulnerable made Arthur's stomach twist even more.

 _'Such a sweet child. How can we have failed him so much?'_

As he settled back on the chair to start his silent watch, Arthur swore to himself that it wasn't going to happen again. This time, he was going to pay proper attention to Matthew.

The day went swimmingly until mid-morning, when Matthew woke up in the middle of a coughing fit. Arthur immediately set his book on the side-table and helped him up, rubbing the child's back until the coughing subsided.

Arthur frowned as he realized that Matthew's wheezing hadn't completely disappeared, he seemed to be having troubles drawing a full breath, but he immediately schooled his features in a smile when the child's questioning eyes landed on his face.

"Arthur…?" Matthew asked, furrowing his brow.

"Yes, it's me," Arthur answered as he handed the child a glass of water. "Your dad had to go to work. But don't worry, he will be back soon."

Matthew obediently took a couple of sips before settling the glass back on the side-table, but his features never relaxed.

"Are you… missing school because of me? I'm sorry…" he muttered as he lay down on the bed, refusing to meet Arthur's eyes.

Arthur would have wanted to kick himself.

"It's absolutely no troubles," he answered with fake glee, then bent over the child, lowering his voice. "To be perfectly honest… don't tell my mum because I'd never hear the end of it, but I don't actually mind missing a day of school."

Matthew's lips finally curled into a minute smile, and his eyes looked up to Arthur. They were too bright, the boy noticed.

"How are you feeling?"

Matthew shrugged.

"My head kinda hurts. And my throat. My belly, too, but not as bad as this morning. I… I'm not going to throw up."

Arthur nodded, pursing his lips. While it certainly wasn't good, it could've been worse.

"Are you having troubles breathing?" he asked, noticing again how Matthew's breaths seemed slightly raspy.

The child hesitated a moment before answering.

"My chest feels a bit heavy," he admitted in the end, "But… it's not really bad. It was worse…"

His voice drifted off as his eyes seemed to lose focus. The look on his face made Arthur's skin crawl.

 _'It's fine, just a bit of congestion,'_ the boy told himself, _'I don't need to press any further.'_

"Well, since you're awake, what would you say if I read you a story?" he asked with fake cheerfulness, hoping to divert the child's mind from the memories that were threatening to swallow him.

Arthur's offer had the effect he was hoping for. Matthew immediately brightened up, nodding, and for the following hour, both boys found themselves engrossed in Harry Potter's adventures at the Triwizard tournament. A bit too much, maybe.

So much that Matthew's sudden pained whimper caught Arthur completely out of surprise.

"Matthew? What's wrong?" he asked, immediately setting aside the book.

Was it just his imagination, or was the flush on Matthew's cheeks more intense? His breathing sounded more ragged, too…

"M—my belly…" the child moaned, "It… it hur—"

Matthew didn't complete the sentence before turning completely white. With an alarmed cry, Arthur dragged him to a sitting position and pushed the sick-bowl under his head, just in time for the child to throw up violently into it.

The vomiting session seemed endless. Matthew kept hacking and sputtering into the bowl, sobbing the entire time, while Arthur rubbed circles on his back, trying to ignore the way his own stomach turned at the foul smell.

"Sorry… I'm—I'm sorry…" Matthew sobbed when he had finished emptying his stomach, as Arthur helped him sit against the board.

"It's all right," Arthur lied soothingly, stroking Matthew's hair away from his forehead. The heat that prickled his skin made his stomach clench, but he never stopped smiling. "I'll go wash the bowl and be right back, all right?"

Arthur almost ran out of the room, rushing his task as much as he could, and when he got back Matthew had composed himself a little, even if he was still slightly sniffling.

"I hate this. Sorry for being troubles."

"You're not giving any troubles," Arthur immediately reassured him, feeling his chest tighten.

How could Matthew blame himself, when it was everybody else's fault that he had been left behind?

Matthew shook his head, coughing slightly.

"Is… Is Alfred going to be mad at me, now?" he asked then, his feverish eyes desperately looking at Arthur ones.

"Of course not," Arthur answered easily, his hand automatically running to stroke Matthew's hair. "He's going to be sad that you're sick, but that's it. There's no reason for him to be angry… why do you think he would be?"

"But… we were supposed to go to the park today," Matthew muttered feebly, "We're not going to go, and that's because I'm sick. Alfred never gets sick…"

"That's not something either of you can control," Arthur retorted, but he could immediately tell that Matthew wasn't convinced.

"It's not only that," the child continued desperately, "Alfie's getting tired of me, I know it! He tries to make me play with his friends, but they're all loud and faster than me and I don't know how to play with them, I try so hard to be like Alfred but I…"

With horror, Arthur saw tears glistening at the corners of Matthew's eyes.

"Matthew, you got everything wrong!" he interrupted the child, desperately trying to find the right words. "You… I'm sure that Alfred still loves you. And it's normal that you can't play with his friends, they're older! You… you're not Alfred, you don't have to compare yourself to him!"

A broken sob bubbled up Matthew's throat.

"But… but… I'm too shy and silent and I can't make friends. Mama always told me… _'Look at Alfred! Why can't you be more like him?_ '… and she's right because Alfie immediately makes friends and everybody remembers him and likes him while I… I…"

"And you are yourself," Arthur interrupted him, his voice trembling. He didn't know what to say, the horror was clouding his mind, but he had to try. No eight-year-old should be allowed to think that way. "You're sweet, you're always obedient, you're smart, you're independent… They're all good things. Just… different good things from those Alfred is good for. You don't have to be like Alfred to be a good person."

Matthew appeared to be considering his words, his forehead slightly scrunched.

"You're not like Alfred," he stated in the end, "But I still like you. Alfred still likes you. Does it mean that they can like me too, even if I'm not like Alfred?"

"Yes, exactly," Arthur answered immediately, hiding his surprise. "You don't have to be like Alfred to be liked by people. And Matthew? You don't have to play with Alfred's friends all the time if you don't feel comfortable with them. You just have to say it – you can stay home and read a book if you'd rather do that."

Had anybody ever asked Matthew if he was all right with playing with Alfred's friends, instead of simply dragging him around? Arthur was afraid that they hadn't, and the way Matthew's eyes widened at the statement confirmed his suspicion.

"Well…" Matthew whispered, sliding down on the bed. "I don't mind being with Alfred, but I don't really like playing with some of his friends. I suppose I could stay home, sometimes."

He offered Arthur a small, genuine smile that made the boy's heart melt. The guilt for not having paid Matthew the attention he deserved was still uncomfortably settled in Arthur's stomach, but the weight had lessened a bit in seeing the child's emotional turmoil at least temporarily solved.

That left only his physical ailment to take care of. Everything went smoothly for about another half an hour, until Matthew started complaining again about stomach cramps. Arthur handled it as well as he could, but there wasn't much comfort he could offer the child except for rubbing his back and stroking his sweaty hair, taking note of how Matthew's skin appeared to be warmer.

A quick check with the thermometer confirmed his suspicion, making a weight plummet in Arthur's stomach: Matthew's fever had gotten to 39.5. To make matters worse, six hours hadn't passed yet, and all Arthur could do to comfort the child was placing a damp cloth on his forehead, unsure if it would be of any help at all or just something that worked in fiction.

Things only went downhill from there. Matthew didn't seem to able to go more than half an hour without throwing up, and Arthur noticed with alarm that his breathing was getting more ragged and uneven. At least, Matthew appeared to be still alert, but from the discomfort written in his waxen features, Arthur would have almost preferred him to be asleep.

Even worse, Matthew's fever was steadily rising, and by the time Arthur could give him more Tylenol the child wasn't able to keep it down, leaving the teen with only a useless wet cloth as help. Lunchtime came and passed completely ignored. Matthew could hardly keep down any water, and Arthur wasn't faring much better, his stomach completely closed off by anxiety and concern. Eating was the last of his thoughts.

By the time George came back with Alfred, running upstairs without even bothering to take off his coat, Arthur had the phone in his hands, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"I was about to call an ambulance," he muttered shakily, his head almost spinning from the relief of seeing George. "Matthew… he's not doing good at all. He has been throwing up all the time, he must be dehydrated by now, there's something wrong with his breathing and I checked his fever just now, it was 40.4 and I…"

George managed to flash Arthur a small, reassuring smile, but his eyes immediately darkened as they fell on his youngest son. In spite of the blankets Arthur had kept wrapping around him, Matthew was shivering, his cheeks were brightly flushed but the rest of his skin pasty and covered with sweat. The worst part, however – the part that was squeezing Arthur's chest in an iron grip – were the shallow, ragged breaths that passed the child's parted lips, each of them sounding like it took an incredible effort.

"Papa…?" Matthew moaned feebly when his father knelt over him, gently cupping his face with one hand. His eyes fluttered open, but he said nothing more.

"I'm taking him to the hospital," George declared as he lifted the child into his arms, blankets and all.

"Dad, what's wrong?" Alfred asked from the doorway, his eyes impossibly wide and his eyebrows raised.

"Mattie's quite sick, sweetheart," George answered promptly, somehow managing to keep his voice even. "It's probably not so bad that he would actually need a hospital, it's just that he cannot eat so he needs an IV, and they can do it only at the hospital. But it will be all right."

The man had already started walking to the door, with Alfred and Arthur in tow, but he stopped right before stepping out.

"You two should stay home," he declared, his voice not unkind but stern enough to show that there was no space for discussion. "You'd only risk getting sick as well, we don't know how many illnesses are around the ER… and you'd be alone only tonight, Mom is coming back tomorrow morning."

"But—" Alfred immediately tried to protest, only to be stopped by Arthur's hand on his shoulder.

"I'll let you know as soon as I know something," George promised as he stepped out, leaving Arthur and Alfred staring at the door slamming closed with a thud.

"I know that you want to be with Mattie," Arthur stated as soon as Alfred turned towards him, his forehead creased in anger. "I would like to stay with him as well, believe me. But right now, going to the hospital would only mean being a distraction for your Dad. And right now, he needs to focus only on Matthew."

Arthur's own chest ached at the thought of leaving Matthew alone, he couldn't stop thinking about his strained breaths and burning skin, but he couldn't be selfish. He had already overlooked Matthew's needs far too long.

Alfred's features finally smoothened down, but something harsh remained his eyes. Arthur couldn't even imagine how bad it must be for him, who had been present when Matthew had been forgotten.

"It wasn't your fault, and Matthew is going to be all right," Arthur declared gently, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. "What would you say to a movie? _Captain America_ , maybe?"

"Sounds fine," Alfred muttered, letting Arthur lead him away from the hall.

There was still an odd note in voice, but Arthur couldn't demand him not to worry at all. The only thing he could do was to divert his mind from the present.

Matthew turned out to have contracted pneumonia, but he was lucky, the doctors said, because they had managed to tackle it at an early stage. Both Arthur and George were praised for the decision to take him to the hospital as soon as the symptoms had started worsening. Each smile addressed to Arthur made a weight sink lower in the boy's stomach.

Matthew ended up staying at the hospital for five days before being discharged and sent home with strict instructions to do nothing but rest. It was the first time Arthur and Alfred saw him, and they both welcomed him warmly.

"Let's watch _The Avengers_!" Alfred declared immediately, his arms still around his brother's neck. "Dad said that we could borrow his laptop and watch movies from our room!"

It was easy to see how everybody had always ended up accommodating Alfred's requests: if anything, the child was louder than his brother. And Matthew didn't complain – but this time, Arthur wasn't going to forget about him.

"Do you want to do that, Matthew?" he asked, "Or would you prefer to watch something else? I could even read you something if you'd prefer that…"

Matthew pecked up at that, a small glint shining in his still tired and feverish eyes.

"We never finished reading _Harry Potter_ …" he murmured shyly.

"But I don't know anything about that!" Alfred pouted, crossing his arms in front of his chest, but for once, Arthur ignored him. He had spent the last five days bending to all his requests in order to keep him calm, but now that Matthew was home it was his turn. They could watch the movie later, after all.

Even in the following days, Arthur always made sure to leave some space for Matthew and ask for his preferences, trying to balance between Matthew and Alfred.

It wasn't easy, and the school making Arthur busier wasn't helping, but every time Arthur saw Matthew's smile get bigger and more confident, each time the child would look at him for advice repaid everything.

Matthew was completely different from Alfred, but Arthur was proud to say that he was finally figuring him out. He just needed to be more patient, more attentive to his hints.

The day Matthew finally stood up for himself and declared that he was going to stay home reading instead of going to the park with Alfred made Arthur's chest fill with a mixture of relief and pride.

"You see, Matthew likes playing with you, but he doesn't always enjoy playing with some friends of yours. They're a bit too old and too rowdy for him," he explained to Alfred, who was staring at Matthew's retreating back with his eyes wide in outrage. "So he's not always coming with you."

Arthur considered the matter settled at that. Matthew still went out to play with Alfred, just not every time, and he looked considerably more relaxed with that.

Of course, things could never just go smoothly in their family. With Matthew mostly settled, Arthur found himself having to worry about Alfred, who had started throwing strange tantrums.

It was only small things in the beginning – his stuff being left all over the house, Alfred forgetting to take out the trash, calling Arthur for help with things he should have figured out on his own – but gradually progressed until Arthur didn't know what to do anymore.

Alfred was mostly nice with their parents, but when he was only with Arthur and Matthew he often turned up grumpy and unsociable. Sometimes, he seemed to make noise just in order to annoy Arthur or Matthew when they were concentrating on something, and he even answered rudely when confronted about it.

Other times, however, he was the sweet, affectionate Alfred he had always been.

"Is he becoming an adolescent?" Arthur complained one day with Lovino and Vlad. "He's only ten, I thought he was too young for that, but at this point…"

Lovino snorted.

"He's not an adolescent. He's a child who lost his mother," he declared, tearing open a packet of chips with more violence than necessary.

"But… that was months ago," Arthur retorted, his stomach coiling unpleasantly at the thought. "He… he actually got better…"

Had he been completely mistaken?

Lovino shook his head.

"Oh, don't look at me like a kicked puppy. It's not your fault," he growled, before taking a deep breath and continuing with a calmer voice. "But sometimes, the trauma can be delayed. Maybe now that he sees Matthew getting better everything is catching up with him, and not everybody acts all depressed, you know? Sometimes people act like little shits when they're hurting. I behaved like a massive jerk for a while after my parents died."

Arthur and Vlad stilled, exchanging a quick glance. Lovino hardly ever mentioned his parents.

The boy took another deep breath, placing his hands flat on the table.

"I don't want to talk about it, so I'll say this one thing and then we'll change topic," he declared, "But look, Alfred needs to realize that hurting other people just because he himself is hurting is a shitty excuse and it's not going to help anybody. You can tell your parents, take him to therapy and shit or let him figure out himself because the Alfred I know is a sweet kid and he will regret what he's doing, at one point. Either way, this is going to suck. But that's life. Life just sucks sometimes."

As promised, the conversation quickly switched to a different topic after that, but Lovino's word kept resounding in Arthur's mind the entire time, making his stomach curl unpleasantly.

Arthur didn't want to tell their parents because they would scold Alfred, but he wanted Alfred to get better. He resolved to be kinder to him, letting him understand that Arthur was always going to be there to support him.

It didn't work.

The tension kept rising until one day it shattered in shouts coming from Matthew and Alfred's bedroom. Arthur, who had been calmly reading a book, groaned, hoping for one of his parents to go calm down his younger brothers. A moment later, he realized that _he_ was the one in charge of them since Aila and George were at work.

Sighing, Arthur put down his book and started walking towards the bedroom. It was probably the first time Alfred and Matthew were fighting seriously, he had never heard them have more than a light scuffle… but that was bound to happen sooner or later.

Arthur wasn't expecting the tornado that hit him as soon as he opened the door.

Matthew and Alfred weren't only arguing, they were yelling at each other, red-faced in anger. Arthur couldn't even tell what they were saying since they were talking over each other.

"Hey!" he tried calling them, slightly panicked. "Hey. HEY! CALM. DOWN!"

Both children quieted down after his yell, turning simultaneously towards him.

Arthur could already feel a headache blossoming behind his forehead.

"What's wrong?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"He…" Matthew started saying, glowering at his brother, but Alfred stopped him.

"Oh, you're going to snitch to Arthur now, aren't you?! What do you think, that he'll like you better if you're a snitch?! You're just a pathetic little snitch!"

He cried out, his clenched fists trembling.

"Alfred!" Arthur rebuked him immediately, appalled, "Don't talk like this to your brother!"

Alfred whirled towards him, his eyes blazing with fury.

"So now you're taking his side, aren't you? You aren't even going to listen to all the mean things he told me, you've just decided that Matthew is right!"

Arthur automatically took a step back, taken aback by Alfred's vitriol.

"Alfred, what are you saying? I'm not…"

"But of course Matthew is right, isn't he?! He's all good and follows the rules and reads, right?! And that's all that matters to you! I don't know how I used to think you were cool, you're just a stuck-up ass! I hate you!"

Alfred's words were like a punch in the gut. Arthur opened and closed his mouth, his mind empty. He had tried his best for Alfred. He had done everything he could for him…

 _'Where did I go wrong?'_

"Stop it!" screeched Matthew, his voice trembling as he fought to hold back the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. "Don't say things like that! Arthur is the best with us, you're a selfish prick!"

Alfred stomped his feet, snapping back to Matthew.

"And I hate you, too! I wish you'd never come to live with us! You ruined everything! Both of you did! You stole each other away from me!"

A broken sob erupted from Alfred's lips, and the child swiftly turned and run away from the room, his steps punctuated by loud sobs.

Arthur was frozen, his chest trapped in an icy grip. It took him a few moments to recuperate any functionality. Next to him, Matthew had started crying, silent tears streaming down his face, but Arthur's dazed mind couldn't stop thinking about Alfred's desperate words.

About how badly he had failed.

"Alfred!" he finally managed to cry out, dashing after the child.

Arthur managed to finally catch up with his younger brother under the tree house. The child was perched at the top of the stairs, curled up in a trembling ball.

"Go away!" he sobbed, "I don't want your pity! Go away!"

Arthur took a deep breath, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach.

"No."

Alfred violently shook his head.

"Go back to Matthew! I've upset him, haven't I? Go back to him, since you like him better!"

 _Oh, Alfred…_

Arthur couldn't believe how he could have made such a big mistake. But somehow, he had to fix it.

"I don't like Matthew more than I like you. I don't like any of you more than the other one."

"You're just saying this because this is what you have to say!" Alfred replied tearfully.

Arthur took a deep breath, trying to slow down his painfully thundering heart.

"But I am here with you, aren't I? And I still spend a lot of time with you. I wouldn't do that if I liked Matthew more than I like you."

This time, Alfred's answer was a bit delayed.

"But you still stole Mattie from me!" he whined in the end.

And that was probably the heart of the problem, Arthur understood with dizzying clarity. Not that Arthur didn't spend any more time with Alfred, but that now Matthew, who had always looked up to Alfred, had somebody else as well. Arthur should have known it, he immediately recalled the pride Alfred had in being an older brother…

"And why do you think this?" he asked patiently.

"He doesn't want to spend time with me anymore!" Alfred sniffled, "And…and… he used to come to me and ask me stuff, but now he doesn't. Now he comes to you! And he doesn't talk to me anymore, he doesn't even want to play with my friends… Mattie doesn't like me anymore!"

Alfred's loud sobs pierced Arthur's chest like a knife. Even worse was the fact that it was all a huge, stupid misunderstanding of which _he_ had been the author.

"Oh, Alfred, that's not true!" he exclaimed as soon as he could talk, "This… this is so stupid… Do you know that Matthew told me exactly the same, a couple of weeks ago?"

Alfred finally stilled at his words.

"What?"

"Matthew was afraid that you'd stop liking him," Arthur went on, "He didn't want to bother you because he's not as active and loud as you are. He's uneasy with your friends because they're a bit too loud for him, but he admires you so much… you're his biggest role model, you know?"

Alfred finally raised his head from his knees, his huge, red-rimmed eyes looking straight into Arthur's ones.

"R—really?"

Arthur didn't divert his eyes.

"Yes, really. It's true, he might like reading more than he likes playing outside, but this doesn't mean that he doesn't like you. The fact that now he also likes me doesn't take anything away from you, he still adores you. You're his big brother, his hero."

"Oh…" Alfred muttered weakly.

Finally, he uncurled and slowly climbed down the stairs.

"Oh, I've made a mess…" he whispered, looking desperately at Arthur. "I… I don't really hate you. Or Mattie."

Tears were starting again to pool at the corners of his eyes.

Arthur instinctively wrapped his arms around the child, squeezing him against his chest.

"I know that you don't hate me," he whispered into Alfred's hair, "And I know that you don't hate Mattie, either. I'm sure that he didn't mean whatever he told you, either… you both just have to apologize."

Arthur kept holding Alfred and stroking his back until the child's sobs subsided to small sniffles, then he took his hand and together they walked back into the house.

Matthew welcomed them at the bottom of the stairs, almost throwing himself at Alfred.

"I'm sorry!" he hiccupped, "I was ho—horrid, I—I didn't me—mean what I sa—said, I…"

Alfred immediately hugged him back, burying his nose in his brother's hair.

"I'm sorry too," he murmured, his voice trembling. "I'm happy that you're here, Mattie. So, so happy. I'm happy to have you and Artie both."

Both children were openly bawling at that point, but they were clutching at each other as if their lives depended on that. The worst was passed.

Almost dizzy with relief, Arthur placed one hand on each of their heads with a sigh and started stroking their hair – Matthew's feathery, Alfred's coarser.

Taking care of two brothers was going to be even harder than anticipated. They all had to adjust, and Arthur could tell that it wasn't going to be the last fight. But he also knew with absolute certainty that it was worth it.

 **(word count: 11,160)**

* * *

 **Notes : **

102.02 °F = 38.9 °C  
100.4 °F = 38 °C  
39.5 °C =103.1 °F  
40.4 °C =104.7 °F

Most electronic thermometers can be set either in Celsius or Fahrenheit (yes, both. Yes, it's ridiculously easy to do that. Yes, people get mistaken. Yes, I have stories to tell about this) so when George used it it was in Fahrenheit, but Arthur set it in Celsius because it's the measurement unit used in England (or better, the entire world aside from the US), so I guess he would be still more used to it.

 **Some brief medical notes:** if you remember, last chapter Matthew had had his spleen removed because it had been punctured by a broken rib. The spleen has an important role in the immune system. If it's removed or impaired, other organs can supply to most of its functions, but not completely, which leaves patients subjected to splenectomy more susceptible to illnesses. In most cases, especially with children, it's recommended to take a daily prophylactic dose of antibiotics to prevent infections. This doesn't always happen, but seeing that Matthew was already a sickly child I went with it. Matthew still getting sick is not impossible, however. His body was put under a lot of stress, which further weakened his immune response (by the way, he's simply taking amoxicillin, without even a beta-lactamase inhibitor – there can be strands resistant to that).

Vlad is Romania. (He's hardly mentioned but just to make things clear)

English isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistake. Feel free to tell me if you spotted anything!

But enough with my ramblings. We're almost at the end of this story. There's a short (in my mind, at least, but you know me… it could easily get as long as this chapter lol) epilogue to add, but this story has completely drained me and I have a lot going on right now, so I don't know when I'll be able to write it. Surely not before February.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! And if you did or if you have anything to say, please leave a review :)


	5. Epilogue

**Notes : **I don't know if anybody remembers this story… I'm sorry for taking so long! I had said that the epilogue would take some time, but I never meant so much. Unfortunately, real life has been quite hectic and this short conclusion was very hard to write. I hope I gave it justice.

One a more positive note, I truly have to thank you for all your wonderful support, it meant so much that I cannot put it into words… thank you!

 **Warnings : **Chapter that deals with death (of minor characters, but it's still present) and the first stages of mourning.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

The day everything ended was quite anticlimactic, all things considered. It was a normal day of November, just after Arthur's first mid-terms, with the sun still casting warmth from the bright, cloudless sky. Arthur's mind was miles away from any disaster.

When he heard the metallic voice call him from the interphone, what made his stomach plummet was anxiety for the mid-terms, and as he departed from Vlad's questioning gaze with a weak smile all his mind could focus on was his academic career. He couldn't recall doing anything so wrong to require a vocal call, he had studied as much as he could and he hadn't plagiarized anything, yet fear crawled up his churning stomach. Could his college days be over even before they had properly begun?

Arthur kept mulling over the cause of the call the entire way to the office, his feet automatically carrying him. By the time he got to his destination, his throat was so dry that he could barely swallow, and his stomach clenched shut. He truly hoped he wasn't going to throw up in front of whoever was waiting for him…

Arthur froze as walked through the door, welcomed by an unexpected sight: Massimo Vargas was standing inside the office, his features schooled in a grim expression.

 _What the hell is going on here?_

"I swear that whatever Lovino did, I had nothing to do with it!" Arthur blurted out, raising his hands, "I have no idea of what happened!"

Had Lovino finally snapped and attacked one of the boys ogling at Felicia? Complaining about them had grown into his favourite conversation topic lately, and for how much Arthur and Vlad had always dismissed his violent proclamations the boy _had_ an intense protective streak…

A glint of confusion went through Mr Vargas's eyes, making his feature lose their tension for a brief moment.

"What? What did Lovi… Never mind. No, it's not that. Please, Arthur, take a seat."

The man gestured to a chair at the table in front of him.

Arthur tried to swallow around the lump in his throat as he obeyed, his back rigid with tension.

"Did… did I do something wrong?" he asked tentatively, clenching his hands to prevent them from shaking.

The sorrowful look Mr Vargas addressed him made his skin crawl with uneasiness.

"No, Arthur, you didn't do anything wrong," Mr Vargas stated in an unnaturally sweet voice that made Arthur's chest clench.

Why was he there, then? His brain refused to analyse the implications.

Mr Vargas sighed before he resumed talking.

"There is no good way to say it, Arthur… but we just received a call from the hospital. Your parents were involved in an accident."

Arthur's heart stopped beating as everything froze.

"No," the boy stated, staring straight at Mr Vargas. His ears were ringing. "No, this isn't true."

He almost expected Mr Vargas's lips to suddenly curl into a grin, the man to shake his head as he admitted that he had been trying to fool him – and what kind of twisted, cruel joke was that, anyway? Who could…

The sombre, sorrowful look never left Mr Vargas's eyes, the truth etched in the deep lines of his face.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he said gently, his eyes bright with genuine participation.

"No," Arthur said again, weakly. "No, it's not true."

His ears were ringing, his words came out muffled.

Mr Vargas reached out to place a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur. You know that they were in a storehouse looking for some furniture, right? Some equipment hadn't been fixed well, it tumbled down and..." there was a catch in Mr Vargas's voice. "Five people were caught right under. Your parents were among them."

Arthur felt the muscles of his neck move as he nodded. He knew that Aila and George were looking for new furniture, they wanted to renew part of the house… In some twisted, cruel way, Mr Vargas's words sounded perfectly plausible, but his brain couldn't process them. It couldn't be true.

"Alfred and Matthew?" he asked weakly, trying to shake himself.

His little brothers would be at school. They needed to know. And at the same time, they didn't.

"I've already called their school to say you're picking them up," Mr Vargas declared, "I'll drive you there, you can explain them before going to the hospital. Arthur…"

The boy shook away the hand. The compassion was making his stomach churn, he didn't want it.

"We should go get them," he said, jerking up. His head was spinning.

Mr Vargas looked at him with pity.

"Are you sure, Arthur? Do you want a glass of water, at least? I know that you can't be alright, but are you sure you're… fine enough to face that?"

Arthur was fine. He wasn't feeling anything.

"I need to go get Alfred and Matthew," he stated again, dumbly.

He couldn't let anybody else give them the news, he knew them better than anybody else… he needed to see them.

Mr Vargas squeezed his shoulder one last time before straightening up, the pity in his eyes so intense that Arthur couldn't bear to look at him.

The next minutes passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Arthur found himself in the passenger's seat of Mr Vargas's car, looking out of the window. Mr Vargas didn't try to talk again, and Arthur was grateful for that.

 _George is dead. Mum is dead._

The words didn't sound real. How could they be dead? He had said goodbye that morning, his mother had laughed at him because he was forgetting his breakfast… she couldn't be dead.

Green meadows ran with them next to the windows, birds flew in the blue, cloudless sky that promised nothing but a gorgeous day. The brightness almost seemed to mock Arthur, to taunt him. Everything was so peaceful, basked in the warmth of the sun… It couldn't be true.

Arthur was startled when Mr Vargas pulled the car to a stop, violently jerking him back to reality. The campus was twenty minutes out of the city, but somehow they were already back.

"Arthur, are you sure you want to do this? I can talk to your brothers if you want," Mr Vargas offered, his voice nauseatingly sweet.

"No, I need to be the one talking to them," Arthur stated, getting out of the car. He couldn't feel his legs, he was almost floating.

 _How_ could he even begin to say that?

 _"Matthew, Alfred, there was an accident and our parents are dead."_

That was too harsh. Unreal. Arthur himself couldn't still believe those words, he felt nothing but numbness.

At the same time, Alfred and Matthew were _his_ responsibility. He couldn't force it on somebody else's shoulders.

Arthur shook his head and looked around, trying to shake off the ringing in his ears. They were in front of the high school. Alfred first, then. Nausea blossomed across Arthur's stomach at the thought of Alfred's smiling face – he had managed to recover after Émilie's death, he didn't deserve that, how could he ever…

But he had no choice. Arthur automatically walked the steps into the school, numbness spreading into his entire body. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, forced himself to notice the cracked lines around the tiles so he wouldn't have to _think_.

Alfred's voice finally forced him to raise his head.

"Artie? What the hell is going on?" Alarm was written in the boy's widened eyes and defensive posture. "They… Why did they take me out of class and bring Mattie here?"

Only after those words, Arthur noticed the slight frame that was cowering being Alfred, fidgeting on his feet as he stared at Arthur with scared lilac eyes.

Arthur shook his head, trying to swallow to bring relief to his parched throat. His head was spinning mercilessly.

"It's Mum and Dad," he heard himself saying, "There… there has been an accident."

Arthur could only watch as the expression on Alfred's face changed – incredulity, fear and then absolute horror.

"No…" the boy whispered, violently shaking his head. "No, this isn't true, this isn't…" a broken sob bubbled up his throat.

The sound finally tore Arthur out of his trance. Setting aside his feelings, the boy closed the space between himself and his younger brother and embraced him. Alfred collapsed in his arms with a wail, shaking and sobbing. There was nothing Arthur could do aside from hugging him.

And Matthew… Arthur raised his head to find the boy paralyzed, his eyes wide on his wan face.

When Arthur opened his arm towards him, Matthew followed wordlessly and clung to his side. He didn't cry, but he was trembling as bad as Alfred. Or maybe Arthur was trembling as well, he couldn't tell.

Everything felt blurry from then on, suspended between reality and a dream. Arthur was partially aware of following Mr Vargas into a car, with his brothers clinging to him. Alfred was still sobbing, Arthur tightened his hold around him, but his mind was elsewhere.

He talked with a sombre-looking police officer and the doctors, but didn't remember what he was saying, everything felt hollow and disconnected. A dream. Aila's and George's bodies in the morgue – Arthur heard himself confirm their identity in an empty, robotic voice, but they weren't real bodies. They were just mannequins, Arthur was going to wake up at home in his bed and laugh about this horrifying dream with his mother.

But he never did.

It was only once Arthur walked into the empty house with his brothers, and Alfred's small whisper of "What now?" reached his ears that reality finally hit Arthur like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless.

Aila and George were gone. They were truly gone. Never again Arthur would look into his mother's eyes, never again warmth would blossom in his chest at her tender smile. Never again he would hear her complain loudly about the unrealistic demands of her boss. Never again he would smell the smoke rising from the kitchen as his mother tried a new receipt. Never again he would see her exchange that knowing, satisfied smirk with George.

And George… the man who had accepted him as his son without a single word of complaint. Who had patiently answered all his questions, listened to his ramblings and subtly guided him through the college applications. The man who had always cheered on his football matches, even if he didn't care for the sport and called it with a different name. The man who had shown him how much passion and hard work could lead to success, in spite of what everybody said. The man who had taught him to keep his head high and believe in himself.

Arthur had never called him _'Dad'_.

The pain that washed over Arthur was so sudden and all-consuming that it turned his vision grey for a moment – but Alfred's shaky voice called him.

"Artie?"

The boy had never stopped crying since he had heard the news, his eyes were red and puffy. Arthur found himself transfixed by the tear tracks glistening on Alfred's too pale cheeks. His brother needed him. They both did – Matthew hadn't shed a single tear yet, but his skin was waxen and his eyes had a far-away, dazed look.

Swallowing to force himself to ignore the pain piercing his chest, Arthur looked at Alfred in the eyes.

"It's going to be all right," he declared with as much conviction as he could muster. "We still have each other. We still have to go on."

He didn't believe his own words, but both his younger brothers fixed their lost eyes on him. They were so filled with trust that Arthur _had_ to be right.

Without other words, the three of them sat down on the sofa, holding onto each other. Alfred started bawling again. Arthur wanted to follow him, but the weight in his chest was suffocating, and his eyes dry.

Arthur couldn't have said how much time had passed when some light steps against the floor startled him back to awareness.

"George?" he almost stupidly wanted to ask, a seed of hope blossoming in his chest at the sound of man's shoes against the floor.

The man who emerged from the living room, however, was a sombre-looking Francis. Arthur should have expected that – he knew that, in spite of having spent only one month in their house before finding his own apartment, Francis still had the keys in case something happened, he knew that Mr Vargas would probably call him and Francis would come… and in spite of all that, a weight dropped in his stomach.

Francis said nothing, he simply knelt in front of the three shell-shocked brothers. A small pang of appreciation made its way into Arthur's chest, barely registered under the numbness and confusion.

Francis took Matthew in his arm and held him for a bit, in silence, leaving Arthur free to adjust his hold on Alfred. The teen was too big for that, about as tall as Arthur and broader, but somehow Alfred managed to nestle his trembling body against his older brother's side as if he were still a child.

They just stayed there for a while, too tired to talk, until Francis finally broke the silence.

"There are some things to arrange. I'll do everything – that's why I'm here. You three just… relax."

His words were lame, but Arthur had no energy to retort or thank Francis for what he was doing. He simply automatically scooted over to create some space for Matthew, who obediently curled up between him and Alfred, his eyes empty and his face slack. Shocked. Arthur didn't know what to do.

In the end, Alfred was the one who spoke first.

"We should have something for dinner," he declared with a small sniffle, brushing his eyes. "Mom and Dad wouldn't want us to starve."

Arthur hadn't even realized that they had skipped lunch, his stomach was a single, coiled ball of uneasiness, but Alfred was staring expectantly at him and Matthew, his shoulders squared in spite of the way his hands were still slightly trembling.

"Of course, you're right," Arthur answered mechanically, getting up along with Matthew.

The younger boy hadn't uttered a single word since he had received the news – but Arthur had no idea of how to fix that. Maybe he just couldn't.

Francis had already prepared a light dinner, that Alfred ate while Matthew and Arthur couldn't bring themselves to take a single bite. Part of Arthur's brain knew that he should have forced Matthew to eat, the boy was already too thin, but he was too numb to let any word go past his lips.

Everything went on in a blur – they curled up on their parent's bed after dinner, trembling and clinging to each other. Alfred kept sniffling, his tears seeping in cold, unpleasant patches through the fabric of Arthur's pyjama. Arthur himself couldn't cry, he was too numb to feel anything.

His dreams were plagued by his mother's smile, George's laughter and dead, cold bodies in a morgue, staring at Arthur with empty eyes. He woke up feeling like he had never rested, the morning light reaching his eyes like daggers. The bright sun seemed to mock the coil of pain that had taken residence in Arthur's chest.

Francis was still there, with the breakfast ready and coaxing Arthur and Matthew to eat.

For how deeply grateful Arthur was for Francis's presence, however, he couldn't leave everything to him. When Matthew dashed to the bathroom, expelling a breakfast he had barely eaten, Arthur was the one who held him and consoled him, trying to ignore the way his own stomach churned. He was the one who stopped Alfred from eating the fifth pastry, knowing far too well that no food was going to fill that gaping hole, and instead held the boy when he burst again into tears.

Francis could take care of the technicalities – but Alfred and Matthew had always been Arthur's responsibility, and now that Aila and George were… gone _(Arthur still couldn't bring himself to use the word 'dead', it had an inflexion of finality he couldn't accept yet)_ he needed even more to take care of them.

Alfred, somehow, still managed to find the strength to muster weak smiles.

"It's hard, but we have to be happy," he would say, cradling Matthew and pressing his lips to the younger boy's hairline. "Mom and Dad would want us to be happy – no matter how much it hurts."

Arthur was grounded by that display of strength, because Alfred's eyes searched his ones as he uttered those words. His hopeful attitude could only get as far, he was still only fourteen years old and he needed the guidance of an adult. At eighteen, Arthur wasn't sure he could have called himself that, but he surely wasn't going to let his brothers down.

Matthew and Alfred weren't the only ones requiring his attention, however, and there was another task that couldn't be left to Francis.

Arthur barely remembered the phone call, he couldn't recall a single word he had said, but his older brothers showed up the following day, in the afternoon, after having taken the first plane they could catch.

There wasn't space for words – after one look at Alistair's grief-stricken face, Arthur collapsed in his arms. For the first time since the previous afternoon, he let the sorrow festering in his chest explode into loud sobs and tears streaming from his eyes as he abandoned himself to stronger arms holding him.

The respite only lasted for a moment.

Alfred and Matthew had been attracted by the noise and were hovering behind him, identical lost expressions reflected in their wide eyes. Arthur was immediately reminded that they had rarely seen their – but it felt more like _his –_ older brothers, they couldn't draw comfort from them. He straightened up and quickly swept the tears away from his face with his fist before stepping back from Alistair's embrace to reach them.

Alistair stiffened as a flash of hurt surprise went through his eyes, but he didn't protest. A small spark of gratitude blossomed in Arthur's chest at that.

Only after everybody had tiredly settled into the living room, they realized that Francis had slipped away unseen, leaving behind a fridge stocked with food and a note that reminded to call him, were they to need anything at all. The physical proof of how much he had done once again made Arthur's chest clench at the realization of how he had misjudged Francis, but it wasn't the right time to fix that.

With Francis settling every small matter and Arthur's older brothers home, there was only one thing left to prepare, but merely thinking about the word made Arthur's skin crawl with uneasiness. In spite of that, it had to be done.

Without any fussing and only some other tears from Alfred, the funeral was set for three days later. The hardest part, however, had yet to come.

When they all sat down in a circle inside the living room the atmosphere was suffocating and almost dream-like, Arthur's brain was filled with wool, unfocused. A sharp intake of breath coming from Alfred's mouth brought him back to reality.

"How does even one write a eulogy?" the boy asked, his voice trembling slightly. "I mean…"

Nobody had an answer for him. In the end, Dylan was the one who broke the heavy silence.

"Artie is the one who has a good way with words. He should do it."

Arthur's stomach dropped.

"Me?"

He wasn't ready, but five pairs of eyes were fixed on him. He took the pen with trembling hands and stared at the stack of white paper in the middle of the circle.

Old eulogies filled his mind, not last the one he had heard about Émilie, people talking about the way their loved ones had brightened their lives, of how strong and generous they had been, but everything seemed reductive. How could he encapsulate in some dry words his mother's determination and gentleness, the glint in her eyes, the way her thin lips curved into that half-smile that seemed to know everything?

For long, interminable moments Arthur kept still, the pen hovering over that pitiful piece of paper.

Once again, Alfred was the one who talked.

"This is stupid, Artie," he declared, scooting closer to Arthur. "A laptop would be better, we could make corrections at least! I mean, we aren't going to get everything right on the first try, there's so much to say… because we should say everything, right? What made Mom and Dad good people, but also what made them unique. What made us happy. Like, I don't know, do you remember that time Mom forgot the rice and burned down everything, and there was such a thick smoke everywhere… and Artie, do you remember? Nobody could breathe, and you almost threw Mattie out of the door because he shouldn't be breathing that, and Dad came in with the fire extinguisher because he thought there had been a malfunction or something… and instead, it was only rice. The entire house smelled of smoke for like a week, but we couldn't stop laughing about it and Mom was banished from the kitchen without supervision…"

Alfred's voice trailed off in a broken sound that was something between a sob and a laugher, but before Arthur could do anything, a burst of sharp laughter coming from Connor's mouth made him freeze.

"Mum did that? Are you for real? Oh God… Ali, did you hear that? And she had the nerve to scold us for overcooking a bit of pasta, I swear…"

Before Arthur could understand what was going on they had all burst into laughter and they couldn't stop. _He_ couldn't stop, either. It wasn't even funny, and at the same time it was, Arthur laughed until he was completely breathless and his sides ached. At some point, the laughter had turned into fat tears streaming down his face. He was hiccupping, and he couldn't tell anymore if he was laughing or crying, or both of them.

They spent the entire night like that, sitting in circle as Alfred's laptop (that had quickly replaced the stack of paper) went from hand to hand, the word count slowly raising as they reminisced all they could about Aila and George, the sound of hysterical laughter and loud sobs rising in the silence of the night.

Even Matthew cried, first curled against Arthur's side and later sandwiched between him and Alfred, soft sobs that pierced Arthur's heart like knives – but for the first time, his eyes looked focused, and his lips found the strength to curl into a minute smile.

In the beginning, the ache in Arthur's chest was unbearable, but it slowly faded into an almost pleasant numbness along with the tears. It wasn't acceptance yet – but it was starting to get better, in a strange way that involved Alistair almost choking on his own spit and Connor howling with laughter as Dylan rolled his eyes and patted their older brother's back. Even better were Alfred and Matthew trembling with barely suppressed giggles against him.

In the end, it wasn't a single person who read the eulogy, the six of them stood next to each other as they passed the microphone, crying and laughing as they retold their parents' quirks and what they had left them.

Alfred was the last one to talk, standing with his shoulders squared and a glint of confidence in his eyes in spite of the tears running down his cheeks.

"I know that this is unconventional, to some of you it might even look disrespectful," he said, his steady voice filling the room. "But we won't stop smiling. We have mourned, and we will continue mourning, but we won't let ourselves be dragged down, because this isn't what our parents would have wanted. Our parents cared for us more than can be possibly put into words, and because of this, they would have wanted us to do our best to go on with our lives and be happy. And this is what we will do. We won't remember George Jones and Aila Kirkland as cold, white bodies in a morgue, but we will remember them as they used to be – as lively people, as humans, with their flaws and with their virtues. We'll keep our heads high and we won't stop smiling, because this is the best way to honour their memory."

Arthur's chest almost burst with pride as he clamped a hand over Alfred's shoulder, simultaneously wrapping his other arm around Matthew. Arthur would never have Alfred's confidence, but he could help him not to lose it.

For the first time since he had heard the news, Arthur dared to believe that they were going to be all right.

Alfred's smile and the knowledge that he had to be the one supporting it gave Arthur enough strength to get through the entire reception, smiling at guests instead of wishing they would leave early. He didn't know all of them, but the presence of some people – Vlad, Lovino, Felicia, Mr Vargas… – left some warmth in his chest.

Hours later, when all the guests aside from relatives had left, Arthur found himself exhausted and empty, with his head slightly throbbing, but it wasn't a completely unpleasant sensation.

He rested for a moment against a wall, sighing as he closed his eyes. When he raised his lids again, he was surprised to meet Alistair's blue eyes in front of him.

"Artie, we need to have a talk," his brother said, his voice oddly serious.

Arthur nodded, mourning the moment of respite as he straightened up. There was an odd glint in Alistair's eyes, but he was too numb to contemplate it.

"I'm listening. So?"

Alistair took a deep breath.

"I know that you're studying here, so I guess you'll want to stay… but you need a bit of a break. You should come home for a while."

 _England._

The mere thought of the place made Arthur's heart almost burst with yearning. It had been so long since he had walked through the street of London, breathed its humid air…

"That would be nice," he sighed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But it's not the moment. I think that Alfred and Matthew need to stay home, for now, they have school and they've already missed almost a week… we could do it this summer, though. Maybe we could all come, I think they would love it, the last time was three years ago…"

Alistair didn't return his smile.

"Artie, about that…" for the first time, Arthur noticed the tension in his brother's stance. "Matthew and Alfred… you're aware that you're only eighteen, right?"

Arthur straightened up as well, his blood running cold in his vein.

"I'm of age, Alistair," he declared, looking at his brother straight in the eyes.

Alistair shook his head.

"You're _eighteen_. You are of age, but you're too young to take care of a couple of children. Matthew and Alfred should go with their aunt. I've already talked with her, and she agrees. And so does her husband. It will be difficult in the beginning, I'm not trying to pretend it won't, but it's for the best."

Alistair's words reached Arthur like a punch. For a moment he could only gape at his brother, breathless, as his brain tried to grasp the concept.

"This is ridiculous!" he burst in the end, clenching his fists. "Alfred doesn't even know a word of French! And you want to ship them to Paris, like some stray animals? I didn't take you for such a coward. Matthew and Alfred belong here, and I'll take care of them. They're my little brothers! I won't wash my hands from this responsibility, do you hear me, you bloody w—"

"Arthur!"

Alistair grabbed his shoulders, almost shaking him. Arthur flinched, almost expecting a hit – but it never came. Instead, Alistair lowered his head and took a deep breath.

When raised his eyes, the intensity of their stare froze Arthur's tongue.

"Arthur, listen to me," Alistair said in the softest voice Arthur had ever heard come out of his lips. "I know that you love Alfred and Matthew, and I know that you want to take care of them. But you're hardly more than a child yourself. And children can't take care of other children. Believe me, I _know_."

Arthur's heart leapt in his throat, but Alistair didn't leave him the opportunity to retort.

"After Dad died… After Dad died, I tried so hard to take the lead. I tried to help Mum looking after you little ones – I would look after Connie and Dyl, make sure that they were dressing right and that they did their homework, but especially, I tried to look after you. You were just two, and you shouldn't have grown up without a father, so I tried to be a substitute. But look at where it brought us: I wasn't anywhere near mature enough to be a parent, I ended up being overly stern and making you hate me. And at least we still had a mother…"

Arthur had never seen Alistair look so vulnerable, his earnest eyes made his chest clench almost as much as his words. That was the last thing he had ever expected coming out of Alistair's mouth. Arthur swallowed around a lump in his throat.

"Ali…"

Alistair stopped him, his lips curling into a wry smile.

"No, don't deny it. I know that you hated me. Hell, maybe you still do – and I would be the last person to blame you, really. No matter my intentions, I was a total ass. But this is the point, Artie. You mean well, but there's no way for you to be able to take care of Alfred and Matthew. They need adults, like their aunt and uncle."

Arthur raised his hand to grab his brother's arm, a strange hollowness spreading inside him.

"But this is different," he said, locking eyes with Alistair. "You were just fourteen, just a child yourself. I'm eighteen, instead. I know that I'm young, but it's not fourteen. And you also had to try to raise me from a scratch, but Alfred and Matthew already had parents for most of their lives. Besides, I was _two_. It's completely different, Alfred and Matthew are older, they're more reasonable. We can work this out."

Alistair straightened back, wavering slightly. Arthur could read the flicker of doubt in his eyes as his own chest threatened to explode. He _couldn't_ lose Alfred and Matthew. He had always taken care of them, so many times he had promised George and Aila to look after them… they were _his_ responsibility.

Alistair took another deep breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Art—"

"Arthur!" Alfred's powerful voice drowned Alistair's, making both men whirl towards the source of the noise.

Alfred was almost marching towards them, with his eyes wide and red-faced in anger, dragging a preoccupied-looking Matthew from his wrist. Behind him followed a breathless Marianne and, several steps behind her, Francis lurked at the end of the procession.

"Arthur, Aunt Marianne is saying that we have to go live with them!" the boy said, his voice laced with indignation, as he halted to a stop next to Arthur and Alistair. "Tell her it's not true! Mattie and I are staying here with you, you can take care of us. Tell her!"

The slight flicker of doubt that had started pressing against a corner of Arthur's mind was completely smothered by Alfred's trust-filled eyes and Matthew's timidly hopeful ones.

"Mrs Bonnefoy, this isn't negotiable," Arthur declared, straightening up to look at Marianne in the eyes. "Alfred and Matthew aren't going anywhere. I'll take care of them."

His stomach twisted as the woman approached him, her lips thinning in displeasure. The ticking of her heels against the pavement sent Arthur's heart racing, but he couldn't back off.

"Don't be ridiculous," Marianne snapped, "You're all children. I'm just trying to do the best for Alfred and Matthew, don't you see that? They need real parents, not another child playing that part!"

A ball of anger surged in Arthur's chest at the woman's conceited tone. He took a step forward, placing a hand on each of his brothers' shoulders.

"With due respect, Mrs Bonnefoy, I know that I'm still very young, and I know that the situation wouldn't be ideal. But it wouldn't be in any case – the only ideal situation would be if our parents were still alive. Unlike you, I have lived with Alfred and Matthew for the last eight years, I know how to take care of them. Do you really think that dragging them away from their home, in a city where they don't know anybody, not even the _language_ in Alfred's case, would be the best to let them recover from the trauma? Because I don't think so. Here, they have their friends and their setting, and Mrs Bonnefoy – I'm not a child. Matthew and Alfred are my younger brothers, and I will do my best to take of them."

Marianne was now gaping at Arthur, her perfect eyebrows almost reaching her hairline. She opened and closed her mouth before taking a deep breath, straightening her shoulders.

Oddly, Alistair remained silent, regarding Arthur, the children and Marianne with an unreadable expression.

In the end, Marianne wasn't the one who talked.

"See, _Maman_?" said Francis, a slight smile dancing on his lips as he reached his mother. "I told you so. Believe me, I've seen Arthur deal with Alfred and Matthew, and I can tell you that he's good at dealing with them. He knows all their habits, how to take care of them… while you see them less than once a year, _Maman._ Do you know how to spot when Matthew is feeling overwhelmed, how to recognize if Alfred is just throwing a tantrum or if there's something serious?"

A small _"Hey!"_ seeped through Alfred's lips at that, but any further remark was silenced by Matthew jabbing his ribs with an elbow.

"You don't, _Maman_. But Arthur does. It's how he said – the situation will never be ideal, but _this_ is the best for Alfred and Matthew. Staying in a familiar place with their brother who knows them. Besides, they're not alone. I'll be always here to give a hand, and I'm sure that Mr Vargas would be on call for any need. This is the best, don't you see?"

Arthur gaped at Francis, wordless, as his mother glared at him – but her shoulders were already drooping in defeat.

"Oh, don't thank me," Francis chirped with a smirk and a wink addressed to Arthur.

For once, the boy didn't retort. He could only tighten his hold on Alfred's and Matthew's shoulders, his heart threatening to burst as he waited for the verdict.

"Well, this was unexpected," intervened a deep, accented voice, "But I can't say it doesn't make sense. _Ma moitié_ , he is right. If the boys truly want to stay here…"

Arthur turned around, startled. He had been so surprised by Francis's speech that he hadn't even registered Connor, Dylan and Pierre Bonnefoy reaching the group.

"We want to stay here with Arthur!" Alfred declared loudly, folding his arms across his chest and squaring his shoulder.

At the same time, Matthew gave a small nod, pressing himself closer to Arthur's form.

The boy took a step forward and wrapped his arms around their shoulders, offering all the presents an unwavering stare.

They were looking ahead to hard times, he was perfectly aware of that. The small respite given by the odd mood at the funeral wouldn't last. But Arthur was ready to face them. Alfred and Matthew were his responsibility, his little brothers, and he wasn't going to give them up, no matter what.

 **(word count: 6,005)**

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 **Notes : **

Vlad is Romania  
Massimo Vargas is Rome  
Felicia is Fem!Italy  
Alistair is Scotland  
Connor is North Ireland  
Dylan is Wales  
Marianne is Nyo!France (Francis's mother)  
Pierre Bonnefoy is an OC

English isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistake.

And here we are, at the end of this story. As I've said, this would actually be the explanation of the family situation for other ideas I have – to explain how Arthur ended up taking care of Alfred and Matthew. It was always supposed to end this way, but I hope I gave this heavy subject at least some justice.

As for other stories, they might come in the future, but I can't say when.

Anyway, I truly hope you enjoyed this! And if you did or if you have anything to say, feedback is always appreciated :)

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 **IMPORTANT NOTE** **! The second instalment of this series is now up! The title is _Beyond the Breaking Point_ , you can find it under my profile. I hope you'll like that story as well :)**


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